V.    I.    F.    SERI  ES, 

Each  vol.  izmo,  $1.25. 


THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

BY  MAKGAKKT  SIDNEY. 

AFTER  THE  FRESHET. 

BY  EnWAKD  A. 

GRANDMOTHER  NORMAND1 


B 

JM  JJJ1U  I'tUliK    IN  UliiVl  A1N  U  1  . 

BY  AUTHOR  OF  "  SILENT  TOM." 

'}<!=^(7^^r>/i^  i^ra 


Others  in  Preparation: 


D.  LOTHROP  AND  COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS  . 


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^<3)^>^5»©©S»®>gSe>^®  ^<§^&3>>©Jk 


THE 


PETTIBONE   NAME 


A  NEW  ENGLAND   STORY 


BY 

MARGARET  SIDNEY 

AUTHOR  OF  "FIVE  LITTLE  PEPPERS  AND  HOW  THEY  GREW,"  "So 
AS  BY  FIRE,"  "  HALF  YEAR  AT  BRONCKTON,"  ETC.,  ETC 


BOSTON 
D.   LOTHROP   AND   COMPANY 

32    FRANKLIN    STREET 


COPYRIGHT,  1882. 
D.  LOTHROP  &  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


I.  THE  OLD  HOME  ON  THE  HILL                         ;  7 

II.  WHAT  BECOMES  OF  THE  HOME  ....  28 

III.  Miss  JUDITH  DECIDES  MATTERS.       ...  46 

IV.  IN  WHICH  EVERYBODY  SPECULATES  ...  65 
V.  AND  NOW  BOBBY  JANE  FEELS  CALLED  UPON  TO  ACT   79 

VI.  BOBBY  JANE'S  MANAGEMENT     ....  98 

VII.  WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER       .  119 

VIII.  AUNT  JUDITH'S  WORK  WIDENS.       .       .       .  144 

IX.    TOM  GOES  TO  SCHOOL 163 

X.  THE  DEACON'S  AFFAIRS  WAX  WORSE       .       .  179 

XL  MRS.  BASSETT  HELPS  HIS  TROUBLE  ALONG      .  190 

XII.  THE  SEWING  SOCIETY  BECOMES  INVOLVED      .  212 

XIII.  PARSON  WHITTAKER 224 

XIV.  THE  GOOD  WORK  GOES  ON 244 

XV.  BOBBY  JANE  COMES  TO  THE  FRONT  .       .       .  257 

XVI.  MR.  BEEBE  ALONE  DISSATISFIED        .        .        .  275 

XVII.  THE  MINISTER  FROM  FRANKLIN  SPEAKS  .       .  288 

XVIII.  "  WE  WILL   HELP  YOU   DO   IT  "    .           .          .          .  302 


THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE  OLD  HOME  ON  THE  HILL. 

DON'T  worry  so,  Samantha ;  it  isn't  best 
to  be  too  particular  over  a  thing  if  it 
wears  one  out." 

Miss  Judith  Pettibone  set  the  plate  she  had 
just  brought  from  the  buttery  on  the  table, 
that,  spread  with  snowy  cloth  and  quaint  dishes, 
attested,  without  the  other  signs  of  preparation, 
that  supper  was  nearly  ready  in  the  big  kitchen. 
But  the  other  signs  were  not  lacking ;  with 
pleasant  melody  of  the  singing  tea-kettle,  and 
the  crackling  of  the  old  back-log,  they  filled  in 
an  harmonious  undertone  to  the  two  voices. 

"  That's  true  as  Gospel  sometimes"  said  a 
little  woman  over  in  the  west  window,  pausing 
in  the  act  of  threading  her  needle,  to  give  a 
decisive  nod  ;  "  an'  then  again  'taint ;  which  is 

7 


8  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

about  what  you  can  say  of  most  things  in  this 
world.  But  if  I  give  up  a  mite  o'  principle  to 
one  o'  these  seams,  there's  the  whole  mischief 
to  pay  clear  through  the  dress.  Seems  as  if 
'twas  bewitched  then  !  " 

"  It  looks  innocent  enough,"  said  Miss  Judith 
composedly,  and  bestowing  a  glance  on  a  pile 
of  brown  merino  lying  on  the  broad  window- 
seat  by  the  little  dressmaker's  side. 

"That  may  be,"  said  the  little  woman,  just 
as  composedly,  and  holding  up  the  waist  to 
take  a  critical  sidewise  look  along  its  outline; 
"but  innocent  or  not,  there's  enough  of  the  old 
Adam  in  that  piece  o'  goods  to  make  me  fall 
from  grace  a  dozen  times.  There !  there  goes 
my  needle!" 

Down  she  went  on  all-fours  to  peer  sharply 
under  chair  and  table  for  the  least  shining  of 
the  necessary  implement  to  her  trade,  uttering 
so  many  gusty  exclamations  as  soon  brought 
Miss  Judith  to  her  rescue. 

"  Get  another,  Samantha,"  she  advised,  taking 
down  a  tall  candlestick  from  the  high  shelf 
over  the  fireplace.  "  You  won't  find  that  in  a 
hurry.  Needles  are  slippery  things  at  the  best." 

"  I   sh'd  think   they  was  !  "    declared   the  little 


THE  OLD  HOME  ON  THE  HILL.  9 

dressmaker,  getting  as  flat  as  possible,  to  sweep 
her  sharp  little  eyes  swiftly  over  the  surface  of 
the  old  floor.  "  Yis ;  an'  then  jest  as  soon  as 
I  did  git  fixed  with  a  fresh  one,  where'd  I  be, 
pray  tell ! "  she  cried  contemptuously,  bringing 
herself  up  for  a  moment  in  a  combative  atti- 
tude. "  No  better  off !  Seems  as  if  they  couldn't 
slip  an'  slide  enough  to  plague  me ! "  she  added, 
going  down  again  on  the  floor  with  renewed 
vigor.  "  I'll  find  this  if  I  die  for  it ! "  she  fin- 
ished savagely. 

Miss  Judith  laughed,  and  fitted  in  a  new 
candle,  while  the  prowling  went  on  industri- 
ously. 

"  I  never  did  see  jest  such  a  one  as  this," 
cried  the  little  woman  after  a  tireless  hunt  of 
some  moments.  "  There's  generally  a  little  hope 
to  build  on;  but  this  beats — oh,  here 'tis !" 

And  she  came  up  bright  and  shining,  and 
took  her  seat  in  the  low  splint-bottomed  chair, 
to  catch  up  her  work  triumphantly. 

"  I'll  drop  every  single  stitch  of  my  work  jest 
as  often  as  my  needle  goes ! "  she  declared, 
sending  the  enemy  of  her  peace  in  and  out 
the  gray  lining  like  lightning.  "  Then  see  if 
they  get  the  best  o'  me  ! " 


10  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"And  bite  off  your  nose  to  spite  your  face, 
I  should  think,"  said  Miss  Judith,  smiling  over 
at  her,  "  to  tire  yourself  out  like  that." 

"Well,  I'll  get  tired,  then,"  said  the  little 
dressmaker,  settling  a  pin  where  the  basting- 
thread  should  stop.  "That's  about  as  long  as 
the  slope  ought  to  be,  I  guess,"  she  said  criti- 
cally ;  "  an'  I'll  look  out  for  my  nose.  Have 
to,  I  guess,  if  I  want  any!  'Twouldn't  stand 
many  bites,"  she  added  with  a  short  laugh,  so 
cheerily  contagious  that  Miss  Judith  couldn't 
help  joining,  at  the  expense  of  the  insignificant 
member  adorning  the  little  dressmaker's  face. 

"Well,  how'll  you  have  the  back  o'  the 
basque  cut  ? "  asked  Miss  Samantha  briskly, 
coming  out  of  the  laugh  to  business  again. 
"  Why  don't  you  have  it  with  them  two  pleets 
I  spoke  of.  I'm  goin'  to  cut  Mis.  Square  Hig- 
gins's  so  next  week.  I  would  ef  I  was  you  ; 
it's  all  the  style  now." 

"  If  Mrs.  Squire  Higgins  is  going  to  have 
hers  so,  that  decides  me,"  said  Miss  Judith, 
lighting  the  candle  and  putting  it  on  the  work- 
table.  "  Now,  I  won't  have  mine  plaited  any 
way  !  Cut  it  plain,  Samantha.  I'd  rather  go  plain 
as  a  pipe-stem  all  my  days,  than  to  look  like  her! " 


THE  OLD  HOME  ON  THE  HILL.  11 

"You  won't  look  like  her,"  exclaimed  the 
little  dressmaker  quickly,  and  ready  to  bite  her 
tongue  off  for  having  spoken ;  and  giving  a 
vicious  clip  with  her  big  shears  to  the  thick 
lining,  "you  can't,  no  way  in  this  world! 
The  dresses  won't  be  alike !  Hers  will  be  on 
her,  an'  yours  will  be  on  you.  Do  have  the 
pleets !  They're  the  only  thing  that'll  set  it  off. 
I  sh'd  hate  to  spoil  it." 

She  looked  up  imploringly  into  the  face 
above  her,  while  she  took  a  pucker  in  the 
basque-lining  that  dangled  beneath  her  fingers. 
"  There,  you  can  see  how  nice  it's  goin'  to 
look ! "  she  added,  while  she  held  it  off  at 
arms-length  for  admiration.  "An*  you're  so 
tall  an'  kinder  thin,  I  thought  'twould  give  you 
a  better  figure,"  she  finished  persuasively. 

"I'll  have  it  plain,"  said  Miss  Judith,  taking 
one  look.  "  Mercy !  here  comes  pa,  an'  supper 
isn't  on!"  And  she  flew  to  take  up  the  steam- 
ing tea  and  hot  corn  bread,  that  somehow  found 
their  way  on  the  table  as  the  door  opened 
and  an  old  man  entered,  shaking  the  snow  from 
his  thick  boots  and  rubbing  his  hands  together 
for  the  cold. 

"  I'm    afraid   you've    been    too   far,"    said    his 


12  THE  PETTIEONE  NAME. 

\ 

daughter  anxiously,  making  way  for  him  to 
come  to  the  fire;  and  taking  a  turkey-wing 
from  the  projection  by  the  broad  fireplace,  she 
proceeded  to  dust  off  his  coat.  "It's  snowing 
quite  fast,  isn't  it  ? "  she  said,  brushing  away 
vigorously.  "  How  could  you  .stay  so  long  at 
Deacon  Badger's  ? "  she  asked  a  little  reproach- 
fully. 

"I  haven't  been  to  Deacon  Badger's  at  all," 
said  the  old  man,  sitting  down,  as  if  glad  to 
find  a  resting-place,  and  stretching  his  hands 
out  toward  the  comfortable  blaze.  "I  —  " 

" Haven  t  been  to  Deacon  Badgers!"  repeated 
Miss  Judith  in  astonishment,  stopping  her  brush 
from  chasing  the  snow-flakes,  to  look  into  her 
father's  face.  "Why,  that's  where  you  said 
you  were  going  when  you  went  out  from  here." 

"  Well,  I  did  mean  to,"  he  replied,  sticking 
out  first  one  boot  and  then  the  other  to  share 
the  blaze  with  the  hands ;  "  but  I  stopped  at 
the  woodshed  a  mite — the  further  one,  you 
know  —  to  see  how  things  was  in  there,  an' 
the  wood  was  all  at  sixes  an'  sevens.  That 
Sam  wants  lookin'  after,  Judith;  an'  I  — " 

"Now,  pa,"  cried  his  daughter,  coming  with 
one  step  as  far  in  between  him  and  the  fire 


THE  OLD  HOME  ON  THE  HILL.  13 

as  she  could  get,  "you  haven't  been  piling 
that  wood,  have  you  ? " 

"  Why,  jest  a  little,"  mumbled  the  old  man, 
and  not  meeting  her  eye.  "  It  looked  so  bad, 
Judith,  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"Well,  I  shall  give  up  now,"  cried  Miss 
Judith,  leaning  against  the  jamb  and  speaking 
in  the  accents  of  despair,  "  if  you've  been 
stretching  and  straining  over  that  wood !  With 
your  poor  health,  pa !  Why,  I  don't  know 
when  you've  done  such  a  thing !  " 

"It  looked  so,"  repeated  the  old  man  feebly. 
"  'Twas  all  sixes  an'  sevens." 

He  added  this  as  if  producing  an  entirely 
fresh  remark. 

"  That's  because  I  took  Sam  off  to  go  over  to 
Boxville  with  those  potatoes;"  she  cried  quickly. 
"To-morrow  morning  he  was  to  tackle  the 
wood,  with  several  other  odd  jobs.  Well,  there's 
no  use  talking,"  she  exclaimed  briskly;  "when 
the  mischief's  done,  it's  done.  Now,  you 
must  take  a  sweat  and  get  to  bed,  and  see 
what  that'll  do  !  " 

She  hurried  over  to  a  small  corner  cupboard, 
where  sundry  helps  in  the  medical  line  were 
always  kept  for  times  of  need,  and  began  rum- 


14  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

maging  among  the  dried  herbs  and  collection  of 
bottles  stored  therein. 

"  I  don't  want  any  sweat,"  said  the  old 
man  obstinately,  and  pushing  back  his  chair 
to  look  at  the  supper  table.  "  I'll  take  a 
piece  of  your  nice  johnny  cake,  Judith,  an'  a 
cup  o'  tea;  that's  all  I  want." 

"  Ginger  tea's  the  best,"  remarked  the  little 
dressmaker,  biting  off  a  thread,  and  bobbing 
her  head  wisely ;  "  that'll  take  the  cold  out,  an' 
unstiffen  your  bones,  Mr.  Pettibone.  It  alwus 
does  mine." 

"  I  ain't  got  any  cold  in  my  bones,"  said 
the  old  man  querulously,  and  getting  up  from 
his  chair  to  hobble  with  difficulty  to  the  head 
of  the  table.  "An'  I  won't  take  no  ginger  tea 
nor  nothin'  of  the  sort.  No,  I  won't,  Judith ! " 
he  declared  decidedly,  seeing  her  advance,  a 
bottle  in  hand,  with  her  eye  on  the  big 
spoon-glass.  "An*  you  needn't  think  I  will. 
Come,  Miss  Scarritt,  put  up  your  work  an' 
set  up  to  supper." 

Miss  Judith,  seeing  it  useless  to  urge  her 
favorite  remedy,  or  any  remedy  at  all,  wisely 
held  her  peace,  and,  taking  her  place  behind 
the  big  tea-tray,  proceeded  to  pour  out  for 


THE  OLD  HOME  ON  THE  HILL.  15 

him  as  scalding  a  cup  of  that  beverage  as 
was  possible.  Miss  Scarritt  skipped  nimbly 
into  her  place,  and  the  lengthy  grace  began. 

They  had  scarcely  composed  themselves  to 
the  refreshment  of  the  meal  and  the  village 
chat  that  always  accompanied  it,  when  the 
outer  door  was  heard  to  open,  and  then  stej  :. 
sounded  out  in 'the  little  back  entry. 

"  It's  John,  probably,"  said  Miss  Judith ; 
"  that's  nice ;  come  in,  John,  and  have  some 
supper,"  she  cried  cordially. 

"  Tain't  John,"  said  a  voice  as  a  fur  cap 
was  thrust  in  the  kitchen  door,  enveloping  a 
white  face.  "It's  me." 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  Folinsbee,"  cried  Miss  Judith. 
"Well,  come  right  in  and  have  some  supper 
with  us."  And  she  got  up  for  another  plate, 
cup  and  saucer. 

"  Yis ;  come  right  in  an'  have  some  o' 
Judith's  johnny  cake  an'  a  cup  o'  tea,"  said 
old  Mr.  Pettibone,  putting  out  a  trembling  hand 
of  welcome,  and  smiling  in  a  pleased  way. 

"  I  couldn't  eat  a  mouthful  if  I  was  to  be 
shot,"  said  Mr.  Folinsbee,  twisting  his  hands 
in  great  excitement,  and  staring  out  of  two 
eyes  that  looked  as  if  they  were  on  the  point 


16  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

of    bidding    good-by    to    their    sockets    forever. 

Miss  Scarritt  set  down  her  tea-cup,  and  fas- 
tened her  sharp  little  eyes  on  his  white  face. 

"Yis,"  said  Mr.  Pettibone  sociably;  "you 
must  take  a  bite  o'  Judith's  johnny  cake. 
'Taint  often,  neighbor,  you  git  such  johnny  cake 
as  hers,  unless  it  is  Mis.  Folinsbee's,"  he  added, 
with  a  tremulous  laugh  at  his  own  pleasantry. 
"Judith,  why  don't  you  git  him  a  cup  o'  tea, 
daughter  ? " 

Miss  Judith,  on  her  way  from  the  old  dresser, 
hospitably  intent,  nearly  let  fall  her  burden  of 
crockery  at  sight  of  the  visitor's  face,  as  he 
now  began  to  waive  off  all  efforts  toward  his 
entertainment. 

"  I  can't ;  don't  ask  me,"  he  cried,  shaking 
his  fur-enveloped  head  at  one  and  another 
helplessly.  "  I've  jest  stepped  in  to  tell  you 
the  news  !  Hain't  you  heard  it  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Miss  Scarritt,  eagerly  leaning  over 
the  table,  and  craning  her  neck  to  catch  every 
syllable.  "We  ain't  heard  the  first  word.  What 
upon  earth  is  it  ?  " 

Miss  Judith  put  up  one  hand,  to  stay  any 
dreadful  recital.  Too  late  ! 

"Yis,  yis!"  cried  Mr.  Pettibone.   "What  is't  ? 


THE  OLD  HOME  ON  THE  HILL.  17 

Why  don't  you  tell  on  ? "    he  added    impatiently. 

"  Square  Higgins  is  dead  !  "  said  Mr.  Folins- 
bee,  without  the  least  preamble,  and  twisting 
his  hands  worse  than  ever. 

"  Oh,  my  goodness  me  !  "  exclaimed  the  little 
dressmaker,  nearly  tumbling  out  of  her  chair. 

Miss  Judith  put  down  the  crockery  on  the 
table  and  went  swiftly  around  to  her  father. 

"What  is  it,  neighbor?"  asked  old  Mr.  Pet- 
tibone  solemnly,  while  he  fastened  his  eyes  on 
the  white  face  under  the  fur  cap.  "  Tell  it  all ! 
When  did  he  die,  an'  what  was  the  matter 
with  him?"  He  rested  one  thin  white  hand 
on  the  table-cloth,  while  the  other  grasped  the 
arm  of  his  chair  for  support. 

"Took  with  a  fit,  I  s'pose,"  said  Mr.  Fol- 
insbee,  who,  now  that  he  had  begun,  saw  no 
reason  for  withholding  any  information  in  his 
power.  "  Leastways,  he  was  found  in  his  barn 
about  an  hour  ago  stone  dead." 

"Puttin'  out  his  horse,  I  s'pose,"  said  the 
little  dressmaker,  recovering  with  a  gasp,  and 
sitting  upright  again.  "  He's  too  mean  to  keep 
a  man,  as  he'd  ought  to.  Mis.  Higgins  has  teased 
him  to  a  hundred  times.  I've  heard  her  when 
I've  been  a  workin'  — " 


18  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  In  the  barn,"  assented  Mr.  Folinsbee,  with 
a  bob  of  his  round  head,  his  fur  cap  still 
having  the  honor  to  adorn  it  undisturbed,  "an' 
he  —  " 

"  Make  it  as  short  as  you  can,"  whispered 
Miss  Judith,  going  back  of  their  neighbor's 
broad  shoulders,  under  pretext  of  wanting  to 
look  at  the  clock,  "for  mercy 's  sake,  on  ac- 
count of  pa  /" 

"An"  —  an'  they  brung  him  in — Miss  Judith, 
how  can  I  tell  it !  "  he  exclaimed,  breaking  off 
abruptly,  to  look  reproachfully  at  her.  Then  he 
sank  into  a  chair.  "  I'm  sure  /  don't  want  to 
scare  him  no  more'n  you  do.  'Tain't  mes  to 
blame;  it's  the  fit." 

"  I  wonder  how  he  has  left  his  affairs,"  said 
Miss  Judith  carelessly,  and  speaking  as  fast  as  she 
could,  to  stop  any  further  remarks  on  Mr.  Fol- 
insbee's  part.  "  I  hope  Mrs.  Higgins  and  the 
children  are  looked  out  for." 

"  Well,  that's  the  worst  on't,"  said  Mr.  Fol- 
insbee, going  off  animatedly  into  this  new  direc- 
tion. "  I  don't  believe  they  are.  In  fact,  I 
wouldn't  be  afraid  to  bet — ef  I  warn't  a  per- 
fessor,  an'  I  had  any  money  to  stake  —  that 
every  single  thing  goes  to  that  eldest  son." 


THE  OLD  HOME  ON  THE  HILL.  19 

"  Why,  I  sh'd  like  to  know  why ! "  cried  the 
little  dressmaker,  leaning  as  far  over  the  table 
as  she  could,  and  fixing  her  small  gray  eyes 
on  Mr.  Folinsbee's  countenance.  "The  idea — 
such  a  scape-goat  as  he  is  !  an'  he  hain't  ever 
done  a  thing  to  earn  a  cent  neither !  " 

"  Scape-grace,  you  mean,"  corrected  Miss  Ju- 
dith. Well,  /  should  like  to  know,  too,  neighbor." 

"  Scape-grace  or  scape-goat,  tain't  any  mat- 
ter which,"  said  Miss  Scarritt  decidedly,  who 
never  was,  and  never  could  be,  a  respecter  of 
persons.  "Tain't  any  time  now  to  pick  an' 
choose  words  when  you're  a  talkin'  about  Cyrus 
Higgins.  What  in  the  world  did  the  Square 
leave  things  so  for?  Do  tell!"  she  demanded 
eagerly. 

"Cause  he  hain't  made  a  will  in  twenty  year 
or  more,"  said  Mr.  Folinsbee,  crossing  his  left 
leg  over  its  right  companion,  and  with  the  atti- 
tude, becoming  conversational  at  once.  That's 
what  I  heard  some  time  ago ;  an'  I  don't  b'lieve 
he's  done  it  sence.  He  was  alwus  a  goin 
to." 

"  Alwus  a  goin'  to,"  repeated  Miss  Scarritt, 
in  the  greatest  scorn,  while  her  little  nose 
wrinkled  up  what  end  it  had  indignantly; 


20  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  don't  I  hate  an'  de-sfltse  those  folks  who  are 
alwus  a  goin'  an'  never  go?  Now,  I  hope  he's 
comfortable ! " 

She  gave  a  savage  jerk  over  toward  the  but- 
ter-plate, took  a  piece  and  spread  it  fiercely  on 
her  bread,  as  if  she  could  as  easily  flatten  out 
certain  opinions  and  people,  if  she  had  them 
under  her  thumb. 

"  He  shouldn't  a  done  it ! "  exclaimed  old 
Mr.  Pettibone  with  a  great  exhibit  of  interest, 
and  tremblingly  waving  his  head  over  toward 
his  visitor.  "  No,  neighbor,  he  shouldn't.  He'd 
ought  to  have  looked  out  for  them  as  made  a  home 
for  him,  an'  kept  every  thin'  comfortable  around 
him.  Cyrus  hain't  never  done  any  thin'  for 
him.  He  shouldn't  a  gone  an'  left  things  so," 
added  the  old  man  reprovingly,  as  if  apoplectic 
fits  were  luxuries  not  to  be  indulged  in  too 
carelessly  at  short  notice. 

"  Of  course  he  shouldn't,"  declared  Mr.  Fol- 
insbee  decidedly.  "  Well,  he's  gone  now  where 
he  won't  have  to  hurry  up  an'  tend  to  things. 
He'll  have  plenty  of  time  to  set  down  an' 
think ;  so  there's  no  use  in  talkin'.  An'  I 
better  be  steppin'  along  home,  for  I  don't 
b'lieve  Mirandy's  heard  the  news.  I  shouldn't 


THE  OLD  HOME  ON  THE  HILL.  21 

a  stopped,  only  I  thought  maybe  you  hadn't 
any  of  you  been  out ;  an'  I  felt  so  upsot,  that 
I  declare  for't,  if  I  didn't  want  to  rest  a  bit 
somewheres." 

"No,  he  shouldn't,"  said  Mr.  Pettibone, 
with  as  much  confidence  as  if  expressing  his 
opinion  for  the  first  time ;  "  'twas  a  wicked 
thing  to  cut  off  his  wife  an'  all  those  chil- 
dren—  a  very  wicked  thing!"  he  added,  with 
righteous  indignation. 

"  Well,  gcod-evenin',"  said  Mr.  Folinsbee, 
rising  to  resume  his  journey  "Mirandy-ward." 
"  It's  a  warnin'  to  all  of  us  to  do  what 
we've  made  up  our  minds  is  to  be  done, 
right  slap  off ! "  he  added,  nervously  proceed- 
ing to  the  door. 

"  We  shan't  none  of  us  take  it,  though," 
said  Miss  Scarritt  coolly.  "  I  don't  s'pose 
warnings  ever  scat  folks  into  doin'  of  their 
duty,  like  a  stick  does  shook  at  a  dog.  The 
world  will  wag  on  jest  the  same,  Mr.  Folinsbee, 
ef  all  the  Square  Higginses  should  drop  in 
their  barns  ;  'twould  !  Not  a  mite  o'  difference ! " 

"  I  s'pose  not ;  s'pose  not,"  assented  Mr. 
Folinsbee,  shaking  the  fur  cap  solemnly  at  them 
all  once  or  twice.  "  Well,  good-evenin',  good 


22  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

evenin'."     This    time    he   was   gone    in   earnest. 

The  door  had  scarcely  closed  on  his  retreat- 
ing figure,  when  old  Mr.  Pettibone  got  out  of 
his  chair  and  went  over  to  it,  carefully  feeling, 
to  see  that  it  was  tightly  shut. 

"Judith,"  he  said  tremblingly,  as  he  came 
slowly  back  to  his  seat  and  met  his  daughter's 
eyes  fastened  on  him  in  utter  astonishment, 
"  I've  done  right  by  you :  yes,  I  have.  You've 
been  a  good  daughter  to  me  —  the  best  of 
daughters,"  he  added,  choking  a  bit.  Then  he 
tried  to  go  on. 

"  O,  father,"  cried  Miss  Judith,  turning 
very  pale,  and  going  up  to  his  side  to  lay 
her  hand  on  his  white  hair  soothingly;  "don't 
say  another  word,  don't!  "  she  begged.  "This 
news  has  upset  us  all,"  she  went  on,  smooth- 
ing his  forehead  gently,  "but  we  shall  feel 
better  when  we've  had  a  little  chance  to  get 
over  it.  I  wouldn't  think  any  more  about  it," 
she  added,  trying  to  smile  cheerily. 

"But  I  must  think — I  want  to  think!"  cried 
the  old  man,  turning  his  head  suddenly  to  look  up 
into  her  face.  "An'  I  shall  say  what  is  on  my 
mind,  daughter,"  he  added  with  dignity.  "No, 
you  can't  prevent  it ;  so  listen ! " 


THE  OLD  HOME  ON  THE  HILL.  23 

She  stood  holding  her  hand  protectingly  on  the 
head  so  dear  to  her,  now  white  with  age,  as  if  she 
would  give  her  life  to  shield  it  from  every  anxious 
thought,  and  listened  to  the  words  that  fell  with 
great  distinctness  from  her  father's  lips. 

"I've  provided  for  you,  child,  abundantly.  You 
know  that  I  made  my  will  some  time  ago — before 
John  was  married,  givin'  him  the  homestead  an' 
the  property,  with  the  care  of  you.  He's  a  good 
boy — a  very  good  boy,"  said  the  old  man  with  a 
touch  of  pride,  "an'  I  make  no  manner  o'  doubt  that 
he  would  have  taken  care  of  you  as  nice  as  I  could. 
But  now  he's  gone  an'  got  married,  an'  got  a  lot  o' 
children,  why,  'twont  do  to  resk  it ;  an'  I've  gone 
an'  changed  'round  about  that  will,  an'  made  you 
the  one,  as  'twas  right  it  should  be,  that  is  to  get 
the  property  you've  done  your  best  to  take  care  of 
an'  save,  all  these  years — " 

She  made  an  effort  to  speak  just  here — that  tall, 
strong-featured  woman,  who  looked  as  if  self- 
control  could  fold  those  thin  lips  into  utter  silence, 
that  now  were  impelled  to  let  the  voice  within  be 
heard. 

"Don't  talk,"  he  said  almost  sharply;  "I  shall 
say  it.  It's  been  on  my  mind  for  some  time,  an' 
to-night  I'm  determined  to  speak.  Don't  go, 


24  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

Miss  Scarritt,"  he  begged,  hearing  a  movement  on 
her  part,  as  if  she  were  picking  up  her  things  for 
departure.  "You're  an  old  friend,  an'  I  guess 
any  thin's  safe  with  you.  An'  besides,  I  don't 
know  as  it's  any  harm  who  hears  it,  after  all." 

"I  batter  be  out  of  the  way,  though,"  mumbled 
the  little  dressmaker,  picking  up  her  thimble  and 
tying  her  needle-book  fast.  "I'm  in  an  awful 
hurry,  Mr.  Pettibone,  to-night,"  she  added,  begin- 
ning to  bustle  around  for  her  rubbers. 

"You  can  stay  for  a  moment,  I  sh'd  think,"  said 
Mr.  Pettibone  feebly,  "to  gratify  an  old  man 
who's  known  you  ever  since  you  was  a  baby." 

"I'll  stay  a  thousand  hours,"  cried  the  little 
dressmaker,  trotting  up  to  his  chair,  and  looking 
first  at  him  and  then  at  the  pale  face  above  him, 
"if  you  want  me  to.  I  guess  I  will!  After  all 
you've  both  done  for  me,  an'  for  those  that's  gone 
before,"  she  finished,  putting  up  with  a  quick  hand 
her  little  brown  work-apron  to  the  small  gray  eyes, 
"it's  a  poor  story,  if  I  can't  obleege  you!" 

"Judith,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  at  her  with 
a  world  of  affection  in  his  gaze,  "every  thing's  to 
be  yours,  except  what  little  I  could  spare  to  help 
John  out.  The  will  is  in  that  little  black  box  on 
my  bureau,  under  the  lookin'-glass.  I  had  it 


TlIE  OLD  HOME  ON  THE  HILL.  25 

drawed  up  two  year  ago,  over  to  Boxville.  Poor 
lawyer  Stubbs,  he's  gone — yes,  he's  gone!" 

The  old  man  seeming  about  to  fall  into  a  train 
of  recollection,  Miss  Judith  motioned  silently  for 
the  little  dressmaker  to  go. 

"Well,  I  'spose  you  won't  want  me  to  come  to- 
morrow," said  little  Miss  Scarritt,  as  blithe  as  a 
bee,  "  so  I'm  a  goin'  to  run  down  now,  on  my  way 
home,  to  see  Mis.  Square  Higgins.  She'll  set  a  lot 
by  mournin'  clo'es,  an'  of  course  she'll  want  'em 
right  straight  off;  an'  I  s'pose  you  ain't  in  any 
hurry  to  get  your  dress  done."  She  glanced  over 
at  the  pile  of  work  folded  up  for  future  struggles. 
"  Now  you  can  have  the  pleets  if  you  want  'em," 
she  added,  as  a  sudden  thought  struck  her;  "tain't 
noways  likely  she'd  want  'em  now.  I  shan't 
recommend  'em,  anyway." 

"  You  needn't  come,"  said  Miss  Judith,  ignoring 
plaits  to  speak  quickly.  "I'm  in  no  hurry  to  have 
my  dress  done.  I  can  wait  a  week  as  well  as  not." 

"An'  if  I  was  you,"  said  little  Miss  Scarritt, 
running  back  to  old  Mr.  Pettibone's  chair  after 
putting  on  her  bonnet,  and  taking  out  a  pin  from 
her  mouth  to  fasten  the  string,  "I'd  hop  into  bed, 
bright  and  lively,  as  soon  as  I  could.  I'm  kinder 
shook  up  myself,"  she  added,  while  her  little  keen 


26  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

gray  eyes  looked  as  solemnly  apprehensive  as  it 
was  possible  they  could.  "An"  folks  who  ain't 
very  strong,  why,  it  comes  tougher  on  them. 
Good-night,  Mr.  Pettibone;  an'  ef  you  would  take 
a  swaller  o'  ginger  tea,  it  wouldn't  hurt  you  none. 
It'll  chirk  you  up,  an'  make  you  forget  every  thin' 
onpleasant." 

Miss  Judith  followed  the  little  dressmaker  out 
into  the  cold,  dark  entry.  Then  she  put  both 
hands  on  the  little  thin  shoulders,  and  turned  her 
squarely  around. 

"Samantha  Scarritt,"  she  said,  "I've  known 
you  —  always.  Now,  not  one  word  of  what  you've 
heard  this  night  ever  passes  your  lips.  Promise ! " 

"It's  dretful  to  promise  a  thing,"  said  the 
little  dressmaker,  wriggling  all  over,  while  she 
tried  to  edge  away  from  the  firm  hands.  "  I 
may  want  to  tell  some  time ;  an'  besides,  p'raps 
tain't  right  for  me  to  say  I  won't. 

"You  never  will  tell,"  said  Miss  Judith,  with 
her  clear  eyes  on  her  little  friend,  "  if  I  don't 
want  you  to.  I  never  shall  ask  you  but  this 
one  thing,  Samantha.  Promise  I" 

She  towered  up  above  her  so  very  tall  and 
commanding,  that  the  little  dressmaker  craned 
her  neck  to  stare  into  her  face. 


THE  OLD  IIOME  ON  THE  HILL.  27 

"Oh,  mercy,  yes!"  she  exclaimed.  "I'd 
promise  you  any  thin' ;  only  don't  look  like 
that !  I  never'll  tell,  as  true's  I  live  ! ' 

A  dull,  heavy  noise,  as  if  some  large  body 
had  fallen  suddenly,  struck  upon  their  ears, 
sending  an  undefinable  chill  through  their  hearts. 
Miss  Judith  tore  off  her  hands  from  their  rest- 
ing-place, and  fled,  with  agonized  dread,  back 
through  the  entry  and  into  the  old  kitchen, 
closely  followed  by  the  little  dressmaker,  wring- 
ing her  hands,  and  exclaiming  in  terror  at 

/ 
every  step. 

Old  Mr.  Pettibone  lay  upon  the  floor,  just 
as  he  had  fallen,  in  the  attitude  of  repose. 

• 

And  it  was  repose,  dreamless  and  deep.  For, 
when  the  two  women  raised  him,  they  looked 
upon  the  face  of  the  dead. 


28  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHAT   BECOMES    OF   THE   HOME. 

THE  Reverend  Adoniram  Judson  Whittaker 
sat  in  his  study  lost  in  meditation. 

Life,  that  had  meant  so  much  to  him  and 
to  his  people — in  their  simple  home  joys,  in 
their  strong,  healthful  modes  of  living  —  had 
received  a  chilling  shock  throughout  the  whole 
parish  from  the  vision  of  death  that  had  sud- 
denly arisen  to  reveal  the  dread  reality  of  his 
power. 

"Two  from  under  my  ministrations,"  he  mur- 
mured, "suddenly,  almost  together,  called  — 
where  ?  And  how  much  am  I  to  be  accounted 
responsible,  in  that  those  ministrations  failed  of 
the  highest  results?" 

The   old   question. 

He  sat  with  bowed  head  upon  his  hands, 
wishing,  almost,  that  he  had  been  called  to  go 
too ;  had  been  summoned  to  lay  down  his  weary 


WHAT  BECOMES  OF  THE  HOME.  29 

little  daily  striving  to  do  good  unto  his  people  — 
a  striving  that,  in  this  moment  of  sad  despond- 
ency, when  heart  and  soul  had  been  hushed 
into  a  crushing  sense  of  responsibility,  seemed 
to  him  utterly  weak  and  impotent  to  meet  that 
responsibility  to  the  good  of  any  one  soul. 

"How  much  were  they  benefited  by  my 
teachings  or  life  ?  And  now  they  are  altogether 
beyond  my  control,  or  even  my  knowledge  of 
their  state." 

"Adoniram,"  said  his  wife,  coming  rapidly 
up  the  stairs  to  put  her  head  into  the  study- 
door,  "  don't  you  want  a  cup  of  tea  or  some- 
thing to  eat?  You  didn't  take  any  breakfast 
scarcely,  you  know.  Dear  me !  Your  fire's 
almost  out." 

She  hurried  across  the  room  to  investigate 
the  interior  of  thtP*  stove,  whose  dying  coals 
gave  only  a  faint^leam  of  hope  as  to  increasing 
the  warmth  of  the  atmosphere,  seeing  which, 
she  rattled  the  dampers  vigorously  and  got 
down  upon  her  knees  to  puff  as  smartly  as  she 
could  the  fast-waning  sparks  into  life. 

"So  I  did  let  the  fire  get  down,"  said  the 
minister,  starting  remorsefully  from  his  chair  to 
hurry  to  her  side.  "  There,  Sarah,  don't  ;  that's 


30  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

not  work  for  you ; "  and  he  put  his  hand  gently 
on  her  shoulder. 

"It's  work  for  me  if  it  keeps  you  from 
freezing  yourself  to  death,"  said  his  wife,  re- 
signing her  place  to  him,  but  with  extreme 
reluctance,  as  she  caught  sight  of  his  pale 
face  and  troubled  eyes. 

"  But  when  it  comes  to  my  carelessness," 
said  the  minister,  trying  to  smile,  and  only 
succeeding  in  looking  a  trifle  less  wan  and 
haggard,  "  why,  that's  a  much  worse  thing ; 
your  waiting  on  me,  and  my  allowing  it." 
And  down  he  got  on  the  clerical  knees  and 
took  up  the  poker  gingerly. 

"  O,  Adoniram ! "  cried  Mrs.  Whittaker  in 
dismay.  "  Those  are  your  Sunday  pantaloons  ; 
just  look  at  them  now!  Why  didn't  you  spread 
a  paper  down  first  ? " 

She  ran  back  to  the  big  study-table,  to  grasp 
the  first  paper  that  presented  itself,  and  waved 
a  report  of  the  last  conference  toward  him  im- 
patiently. 

"To  be  sure;  to  be  sure!"  said  the  minis- 
ter, getting  up  much  quicker  than  he  got 
down  to  examine  the  ashy  state  of  his  best 
nether  garments. 


WHAT  BECOMES  OF  THE  HOME.  31 

"And  such  streaks  never  do  come  off  com- 
pletely," cried  his  wife,  slapping  his  knees  with 
the  end  of  her  gingham  apron.  "They  always 
look  sort  of  dingy  and  hateful.  You  should  be 
careful,  husband,"  she  added  reproachfully,  and 
with  a  final  slap. 

But  the  Reverend  Adoniram  didn't  seem  to 
take  her  reproof  into  his  absorbed  mind  in  the 
least ;  but  at  once  began  poking  the  remnants 
of  the  fire  in  an  abstracted  way  so  exasper- 
ating to  his  wife  who  stood  watching  him,  that 
at  last  she  could  endure  it  no  longer,  but 
quietly  assumed  control  of  the  whole  thing. 

"You  sit  down  and  rest,  do;"  she  said 
kindly.  "  You're  all  tired  out  being  up  so  most 
all  night  over  to  the  Pettibones.  It's  a  pity ; 
you  won't  get  over  it  now  in  a  long  spell." 

"I'm  not  so  tired,"  said  the  minister,  begin- 
ning to  pace  up  and  down  the  room,  "  as  I  am 
discouraged,  Sarah.  Yes,  really  and  truly  dis- 
couraged, as  I  reflect  on  my  failure  to  benefit 
the  souls  of  those  two  men  who  yesterday  at  this 
time  were  among  us ;  now,  called  beyond  our  sight." 

"  Why,  I'm  sure  Mr.  Pettibone  was  a  good 
man,"  cried  his  wife,  stopping  her  poking  for 
just  a  moment  to  look  at  him  in  surprise. 


32  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  Of  course  Squire  Higgins  was  different.  A 
moral  man  enough,  I  suppose,  but  nothing 
spiritual  about  him.  But  Mr.  Pettibone — why, 
Adoniram,  what,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

She  rested  her  grimy  hands  on  the  base  of 
the  stove,  to  stare  at  him  while  she  repeated 
her  question. 

"Good?  Yes.  And  moral?"  he  repeated 
after  her,  still  continuing  his  walk  with  troubled 
step.  "  I  say  yes  to  that  also.  But  when 
I  think  that  they  were  both  just  such  men, 
only  younger,  when  we  came  here  to  live,  and 
I  assumed  the  charge  of  this  parish,  my  heart 
cries  out,  What  has  my  influence  been  worth 
that  they  have  not  grown,  and  others  with 
them  ?  No,  no,  Sarah ;  the  fault  is  in  me.  I 
have  not  been  faithful  to  my  trust." 

The  pacing  now  became  a  swift,  determined 
striding  up  and  down  over  the  old  study-carpet  that 
bore  witness  to  much  similar  treatment  in  times 
past  under  troubled  feet. 

That,  bringing  up  before  her  mind's  eye 
each  identical  thin  spot  that  clamored  for  future 
darning,  gave  added  weight  to  the  feeling  of 
gloom  that  her  husband's  words  produced  in 
Mrs.  Whittaker's  heart. 


WHAT  BECOMES  OF  THE  HOME.  33 

"  You're  not  going  to  blame  yourself,"  she 
cried  nervously,  "  when  you've  worked  and 
written  and  talked  and  done  your  best.  You 
can't  make  men  do  as  you  want  them  to.  I'm 
sure  it's  a  comfort  to  me  to  remember  what 
an  excellent  man  Mr.  Pettibone  was.  Do  sit 
down,  husband,  and  think  of  that,  and  not  go 
to  distressing  yourself  over  what  you  can't 
help." 

"  He  was  an  excellent  man,"  repeated  the 
minister  musingly.  "Yes;  I  am  thankful  for 
that." 

"And  you  ought  to  be  considering  Judith 
and  her  feelings  —  we  both  had,"  continued  his 
wife,  delighted  to  see  she  had  turned  the  cur- 
rent of  his  thoughts  a  little,  "before  we  think 
of  any  thing  else.  Poor  thing !  how  she  did  look 
this  morning ! " 

"  She  is  a  brave  soul,"  said  the  minister 
earnestly  ;  "a  very  brave  soul.  There's  no  dan- 
ger but  that  she  will  bear  this  stroke  just  as 
she  bears  every  thing  else,  with  a  disciplined  will." 

"With  common  sense,  too,  as  well,"  cried 
his  wife,  shutting  the  stove-door  energetically. 
"There,  your  fire's  all  right  now,  Adoniram,  if 
you'll  only  watch  it  a  little.  Oh !  I  don't  mean 


34  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

to  doubt  her  bearing  it,  only  I'm  sorry  she's 
got  it  to  bear.  She's  so  fond  of  her  home, 
Judith  is." 

"Why,  she'll  stay  right  along  there,  just  the 
same,  won't  she  ? "  exclaimed  the  minister,  com- 
pletely stopping  his  walk  in  surprise.  "  I  sup- 
pose, of  course,  her  father  has  left  the  most  of 
the  property  to  her,  hasn't  he?" 

"  Oh  !  of  course,"  replied  his  wife  decidedly. 
"  I  suppose  so.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  to  whom 
he  would  leave  it  if  not  to  Judith.  She's 
helped  make  and  save  it,  more  than  any  one 
else.  John  isn't  of  much  account." 

"  Oh !  John  is  a  good  fellow,"  said  the  min- 
ister, with  a  reproving  glance  at  his  wife. 
"  You  shouldn't  speak  hastily,  my  dear.  He 
has  some  very  nice  traits  indeed." 

"  Well,  he  isn't  to  be  compared  to  Judith," 
retorted  his  wife  a  little  sharply.  "You  know, 
Adoniram,  that  John  Pettibone  hasn't  one  single 
bit  of  what  makes  her  so  nice  and  big-souled." 

"Why,  if  you  speak  of  comparison,"  ex- 
claimed the  minister,  with  wide-open  eyes  at 
the  very  thought,  "  I  should  say  not,  indeed. 
I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  comparing 
them.  The  thing  isn't  possible." 


WHAT  BECOMES  OF  THE  HOME.  35 

"  And  besides,  Judith  is  a  woman,"  went  on 
Mrs.  Whittaker,  quite  mollified  by  his  energy. 
"  And  although  she's  better  calculated  to  take 
care  of  herself  than  many  a  man,  still  I  should 
feel  dreadfully,  after  the  way  she's  worked  and 
saved  and  all  the  splendid  care  she's  given  to 
her  father,  to  see  her  turned  off  with  only  half 
of  the  property,  for  John." 

"The  property  wouldn't  be  much  if  divided," 
said  the  minister,  beginning  to  pace  up  and 
down  again,  to  his  wife's  dismay.  "You  know 
Mr.  Pettibone  lost  considerable  some  years 
back.  I  have  an  idea  that  there  isn't  very  much 
left  beside  the  homestead  and  the  little  farm." 

"All  the  more  reason,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Whit- 
taker,  "that  Judith  should  have  it.  And  John 
had  no  business  to  get  married.  I  never  could 
forgive  him  that ;  taking  upon  himself  the  bur- 
den of  a  family,  instead  of  staying  at  home 
with  his  father  and  sister  —  such  a  sister  as 
Judith  was  to  him,  too !  And  then  he  left  her 
to  prefer  the  society  of  Augusta  Bayne.  Why, 
she  didn't  know  any  more  than  a  child !  I've 
never  had  any  patience  with  him  since  that. 
Supposing  his  house  is  full  and  running  over 
with  children,  and  that  he  is  poor!  He  made 


36  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

his  own  row,  and  he'll  have  to  hoe  it,  I'm 
thinking." 

"We  shall  all  have  to  do  that,"  said  the 
minister,  a  little  sadly.  "  We  make  our  own 
lives.  God  forgive  us  if  the  making  isn't  in 
the  right  direction." 

"And  when  .1  think  about  Judith's  loving 
her  home  and  all  that,"  said  Mrs.  Whittaker, 
going  back,  "it  seems  as  if  I  should  cry  for 
her.  For  what  will  that  big  old  house  be  with- 
out Mr.  Pettibone  in  it  ?  And  she  was  so  fond 
of  her  father  !" 

"Judith  isn't  a  woman  to  sit  down  and  re- 
proach the  Lord  for  his  dealings,"  observed 
the  minister  quietly ;  "  and  in  doing  good  by 
working  his  will  in  this  parish,  I  doubt  not 
she  will  have  added  influence  from  this  very 
affliction." 

"  I  know  all  that,"  assented  his  wife  very 
quickly,  and  with  a  troubled  look  coming  all  over 
her  face ;  "  but  before  affliction  gets  very  old, 
and  sanctifying  grace  has  had  a  fair  chance  to 
work,  there  are  some  terribly  hard  hours, 
Adoniram ;  and  I  don't  believe  the  Lord  will 
ever  blame  us  if  we  give  way  sometimes. 
We  are  all  human,  you  know." 


WHAT  BECOMES  OF  THE  HOME.  37 

The  minister  answered  nothing  to  this, 
because  he  had  nothing  to  say.  So  he  wisely 
held  his  peace,  without  even  trying  to  manu- 
facture words. 

"  And  don't  you  go  to  worrying  yourself  too 
much,"  went  on  Mrs.  Whittaker,  going  slowly 
toward  the  door,  and  glancing  anxiously  back 
at  her  husband,  "or  you'll  unfit  yourself  for 
your  duty  to-morrow.  The  two  funerals  in 
one  day  is  going  to  be  a  tax  for  which  you 
ought  to  save  up  all  your  strength." 

Here  the  baby's  voice  underneath,  in  "  the 
keeping-room,"  set  up  a  loud  indignant  shout, 
that  showed  the  efforts  of  the  other  children 
at  entertaining  him  hadn't  been  altogether  a 
success.  The  minister's  wife,  not  pausing  for 
further  reflections  or  means  of  administering 
comforting  advice,  hastily  departed,  to  plunge  again 
into  the  vortex  of  her  neglected  morning's  work. 

The  whole  community,  shocked  and  stirred 
by  this  sudden  calling  away  from  their  midst 
of  two  who  had  been  identified  all  their  lives 
with  town  and  village  life,  put  by  from  their 
absorbing  care,  every  thing  that  could  possibly 
get  along  without  oversight,  on  this  day  of  the 
double  obsequies  over  the  "oldest  men  in  town." 


38  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  Seems  ef  'twas  the  solemnest  time  I  ever 
see,"  observed  Deacon  Badger  to  Mr.  Folins- 
bee,  who  came  next  in  age,  as  they  met  in 
front  of  "the  store." 

"I  d'no^I  d'no,"  he  replied,  glancing  ner- 
vously around.  "  Yes,  'tis  —  'tis,  to  be  sure," 
he  added  a  moment  after,  with  the  greatest 
animation.  "  How'd  they  git  along  over  that 
trouble  with  the  s'lectmen  in  Boxville  ? "  he 
asked  suddenly,  with  an  appearance  of  the 
most  intense  interest. 

"  Oh !  I  don't  know,"  said  Deacon  Badger, 
abstractedly ;  "  I  don't  care  much  about  that 
now  ;  we  ought  to  —  " 

"  Well,  I  thought  Simpson  was  in  a  tight 
fix,"  observed  Mr.  Folinsbee,  edging  off.  "He'd 
orter  have  come  out  an'  showed  his  hand 
before.  It's  most  too  late  to  fix  up  now." 

"There's  a  good  many  things  will  be  too 
late,"  said  the  Deacon  thoughtfully,  with  a  good 
look  over  his  ample  spectacles  into  the  withered 
face  before  him. 

"  So  there  is  —  so  there  is,"  quickly  assented 
the  other,  and  rubbing  his  thin  hands  in  a 
fidgety  way. 

"  Well,    I    must    hurry   along,    or    Mirandy    '11 


WHAT  BECOMES  OF  THE  HOME.  39 

think  I'm  never  a-comin';"  and  he  climbed 
into  his  wagon,  and  rattled  over  the  hills 
smartly,  hoping  to  drive  out  all  the  thoughts 
that  kept  forcing  themselves  on  his  mind. 

But  he,  as  well  as  the  other  villagers,  had  to 
harbor  these  unwelcome  guests  now.  For  a 
long  time  the  quiet  of  their  homes  had  been 
uninvaded,  except  occasionally  by  the  death  of 
a  little  child  or  some  very  sick  person  whose 
release  had  been  long-watched-for.  This  time 
there  was  no  preparation  —  no  chance  to  re- 
trieve mistakes,  or  to  take  farewells  —  and  with 
hushed  hearts  that  threw  their  shadows  over 
honest,  sturdy  faces,  they  gathered  as  one 
family  out  of  the  simple  cottages,  or  the  big 
old  homesteads,  to  show  at  the  houses  of 
mourning  their  friendly  sympathy  and  personal 
sorrow,  in  their  own  rugged  fashion. 

"  I  never  heerd  that  bell  toll  so  ;  it  goes 
all  over  me,"  exclaimed  one  of  the  village 
matrons,  pulling  her  shawl  tighter,  to  suppress 
a  shiver.  "  Samuel,  stop  a-teeterin'  along  that 
way,"  she  cried  to  a  small  boy  in  front ; 
"  'tain't  proper.  Don't  you  know  you  are  goin' 
to  a  fun'ral  ?  " 

At   this,    the    small   boy  came   down   from    his 


40  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

tiptoes,  to  which  for  a  brief  respite  from  his 
enforced  restraint  over  his  powers  of  locomo^ 
tion  he  had  raised  himself,  and  with  extra 
lugubriousness,  proceeded  for  about  a  yard  or 
two. 

"  That's  right,"  said  his  mother  approvingly, 
setting  his  little  brother's  cap  straight  ;  "  now, 
take  hold  of  hands  an'  walk  nice  an'  stiddy. 
Yes,  that  bell  does  sound  just  awful,"  she 
added,  glancing  up  at  her  husband  who  was 
slouching  along  by  her  side,  wrapped  in  his 
own  thoughts  and  his  Sunday  garments  that 
alone  were  always  productive  of  awkward  con- 
straint, now  nearly  unendurable.  "  I  don't 
care  for  the  Higginses  so  much,"  she  kept 
on  —  "Samuel,  what  did  I  tell  you!"  as  her 
eye  caught  sight  of  revived  animation  in 
the  direction  of  the  small  boy's  toes  — "  but 
I  am  sorry  for  Miss  Judith  Pettibone.  They 
had  such  a  good  time  together,  her  father 
and  her ;  an'  they  warn't  stuck-up  about  it 
neither,  if  they  was  Pettibones.  I  wonder 
how  much  he  left  her." 

Into  the  presence  of  death  in  the  old  home- 
stead on  the  hill,  came  those  who  had  left  all 
that  was  mortal  of  the  Squire,  in  its  last  resting- 


WHA  T  BECOMES  OF  THE  HOME.  41 

place.  Came  with  feelings  very  different  from 
the  promptings  that  had  directed  the  curious 
glance  and  started  the  whispered  bit  of  gossip 
on  its  rounds.  Here  was  one  that  the  parting 
showed  how  silently,  yet  how  powerfully,  had 
grown  in  that  little  community  where  he  had 
lived  and  died,  the  love  that  now  rose  to  over- 
flowing in  the  moistened  eye  and  quivering 
lip. 

"  Old  Ira  Pettibone "  was  gathered  to  his 
fathers,  loving  haftds  performing  the  last  sad 
offices,  followed  by  tender  benedictions  from 
young  and  old,  rich  and  poor.  The  old  house 
was  emptied  of  its  throng ;  the  neighbors,  who 
had  stayed  to  help  Miss  Judith,  one  and  all 
departed,  leaving  the  family  drawn  up  in  the 
"  best  room "  to  hear  the  reading  of  the  will. 

Miss   Scarritt  having  twisted  her  black  bonnet 

*  *-* 

strings  all  through  the  trying  services  into  dubi- 
ous creases,  to  work  off  her  almost  over-master- 
ing nervousness,  now  turned  upon  Miss  Judith 
fiercely,  who  invited  her,  as  a  personal  and 
esteemed  friend  of  the  family,  to  stay  for  the 
final  ceremony. 

"Don't  ask  me,"  she  snapped.  "I'm  most 
ready  to  jump  off  the  handle  now  !  I've  got  to 


42  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

git  home  as  quick's  I  can,  or  I  don't  know 
what  will  become  of  me." 

"But,"  said  Miss  Judith  calmly,  "they  will 
think  it  so  strange  if  you  are  not  there.  And 
John  spoke  about  it,  so*  I  don't  know  how  to 
explain  your^absence." 

How  pale  she  looked  in  her  black  dress,  that 
made  the  shadows  under  her  eyes  darker  than  ever. 

The  sight  of  this  only  seemed  to  be  fresh  fuel 
to  the  fiery  element  within  the  little  dressmaker's 
mind. 

'  John  !  "  she  exclaimed  testily.  "  Yis,  that's 
it  ;  it'll  be  all  John,  John,  now,  of  course.  I'm 
sick  of  the  name,  an'  of  the  sound  of  the  will. 
I've  heard  enough  of  it !  No,  I  wont  come !  " 

"  Hush  ! "  said  Miss  Judith  warningly,  with  a 
pinch  on  her  arm. 

"Well,  you  better  let  me  go,  then,"  cried  little 
Miss  Scarrit  recklessly,  "  or  I  shall  tell !  I  ain't 
responsible  for  anythin'  to-day,  promises  or  no 
promises.  When  I  git  over  it  a  spell,  why,  I  can 
keep  still  maybe ;  now,  I'm  goin'  home.  Say  I'm 
sick  an'  you  won't  be  tellin'  any  lies  ;  for  I  declare 
I'm  most  beat  out." 

Without  another  word,  she  stalked  off,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left. 


WHAT  BECOMES  OF  THE  HOME.  43 

Miss  Judith  went  back  quietly,  up  through 
the  two  rows  of  second  and  third  cousins 
who  could  scarcely  restrain  their  eagerness 
for  the  final  ceremony  to  begin,  and  took  the 
place  in  the  chair  next  to  her  brother  John,  up 
by  the  tall  mantel-piece.  Although  her  foot  had 
trod  firmly  the  old-fashioned  carpet,  on  her  way 
to  her  seat ;  although  her  face,  calm  and  strong 
as  ever,  betrayed  her  not,  there  came  for  just 
one  instant,  an  overwhelming  desire  to  get  up 
and  proclaim  before  them  all,  that  the  will  in 
the  hands  of  Parson  Whittaker  was  not  the  one. 
That  one  lay,  where,  no  one  but  herself  could 
tell,  waiting  for  destruction. 

For  only  one  instant  did  her  heart  waver.  In 
that  her  glance  fell  upon  her  mother's  portrait 
hanging  on  the  low  wall  opposite.  Was  there  a 
voice  from  above,  speaking  through  that  life  of 
self-sacrifice  and  forgetfulness  of  personal  com- 
fort, that  bade  the  daughter  follow  in  the  blessed 
path  ? 

Miss  Judith  moved  not  a  muscle,  but  her  heart 
was  at  peace  as  Parson  Whittaker  opened  the 
old  yellow  bit  of  paper  in  his  hand. 

Looking  solemnly  around  on  the  group,  the 
words  fell  with  clear,  measured  utterance: 


44  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  Amen. 

"  I,  Ira  Pettibone,  of  Barkhamsted,  in  the  County  of  Jefferson, 
being  of  sound  and  disposing  mind  and  memory,  do  make  and 
ordain  this  my  last  Will  and  Testament,  in  manner  and  form 
following  :  That  is  to  say  : 

"Imprimis:  I  Will  that  all  my  debts  and  funeral  charges  be 
paid  and  discharged  by  my  Executor,  hereinafter  named. 

"Item:  I  give  and  devise  unto  my  son  John,  his  heirs  and 
assigns,  all  my  houses  and  lands  wherein  situated,  and  also  all 
the  rest  of  my  goods  and  chattels  and  personal  estate  whatsoever, 
with  the  express  command  that  he  shall  take  the  care  of  my 
beloved  daughter  Judith,  as  long  as  she  shall  live,  providing  for 
her  in  all  that  pertains  to  her  comfort  liberally,  or  forfeit  the 
aforesaid  bequests. 

"  Lastly :  I  do  make  and  constitute  John  Pettibone,  my  son, 
Executor  of  this  my  last  Will  and  Testament. 

"  In  Witness  Whereof,  I  have  hereunto   set    my  hand  and  seal 

this  day  of in  the  year  of  our  Lord,  18  — . 

"!RA  PETTIBONE." 

There  was  a  solemn  pause.  If  a  lightning-bolt 
had  crashed  into  the  room,  laying  waste  all  the 
life  within,  there  could  not  have  been  more  pro- 
found silence.  Miss  Judith,  with  warm  clasp, 
caught  hold  of  her  brother's  hand  and  pressed  it 
heartily,  looking  over  at  the  minister  and  his  wife 
for  support. 

But  Mrs.  Whittaker,  when  she  had  recovered 
her  senses  enough  to  speak,  absolutely  refused 
any  expression  of  congratulation  whatever,  sitting 
up  as  stiff  as  possible  on  her  chair,  and  preserving 
the  grimmest  of  countenances  ;  so  that  her  hus- 
band had  to  go  up  alone  and  take  Mr.  John 


WHA  T  BECOMES  OF  THE  HOME.  45 

Pettibone  by  the  hand,  welcoming  him  into  his 
property  by  nicely-chosen  words,  in  which  he 
dilated  on  the  comfort  and  privilege  that  made 
the  care  of  his  sister  a  pleasant  duty. 

The  second  and  third  cousins  now  followed, 
who,  having  no  expectations  of  their  own,  cared 
not  a  straw  which  one  of  the  children  fell  heir. 
Consequently  they  were  just  as  loud  and  profuse 
in  their  expressions  of  delight  as  they  would  have 
been  had  the  daughter  been  the  recipient  of  her 
father's  property. 

Miss  Judith  was  thankful  for  the  noisy  chatter 
that  they  produced  as  they  crowded  around  John 
and  his  wife,  covering  up  the  lack  of  hearty  con- 
gratulation from  long-tried  friends.  But  as  noth- 
ing but  awkvyard  constraint  could  last  long  in 
such  an  atmosphere,  the  minister  soon  picked 
up  his  hat,  and,  with  a  few  mumbled  words  from 
his  helpmeet  and  himself,  started  on  their  home- 
ward way. 

"  Don't  you  speak  to  me,  Adoniram  !  "  said  that 
individual,  when  well  clear  of  the  door ;  "  not 
one  single  word,  or  I  know  I  shall  say  something 
not  exactly  becoming  a  minister's  wife.  If  I  do, 
it  will  be  your  fault!" 


46  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 


CHAPTER   III. 

MISS   JUDITH    DECIDES    MATTERS. 

IT  is  safe  to  say  that  none  of  the  village  people 
suffered  a  lack  of  topics  presenting  absorbing 
interest  on  the  days  that  followed,  even  after  the 
completion  of  the  nine  universally  recognized 
to  be  enough  for  the  satisfying  :  enjoyment  of 
news. 

Every  thing  was  eagerly  grasped  at  that  could 
furnish  a  scrap  or  hint  of  a  scrap  of  what  had 
now  become  the  subject  in  everybody's  mouth 
—  "What  are  the  Pettibones  going  to  do?" 

For  the  Higgins  family  sank  at  once  into  hope- 
less commonplaceness,  having  nothing  to  offer  in 
the  way  of  attractiveness  and  variety,  either  in 
their  affairs  or  the  management  of  thejn,  able  in 
the  slightest  to  compete  with  the  change  and  rev- 
olution that  made  the  old  homestead  on  the 
hill  the  point  to  which  all  eyes  were  now  directed. 

Miss  Scarritt  was  in  great  demand  about  these 


MISS  JUDITH  DECIDES  MATTERS.  47 

times,  being  hailed  as  a  perfect  treasure  when- 
ever she  dropped  in  anywhere  for  a  moment  or 
two,  and  stopped  and  hindered  on  the  road 
twice  as  long,  whenever  she  didn't  know  which 
way  to  turn  for  the  hurry;  for,  having  been 
at  work  for  "Miss  Judith"  on  the  eventful  day, 
she  could  tell  every  detail  of  old  Mr.  Pettibone's 
sudden  attack:  "What  he  said,"  and  "how  he 
looked,"  and  "how  Judith  took  it,"  and  so  on  and 
on,  without  ever  reaching  the  end  of  the  story. 

The  little  dressmaker  was  in  high  glee.  Not- 
withstanding her  sorrow  at  the  loss  of  a  per- 
sonal friend,  added  to  her  indignation  and  nervous- 
ness at  the  turn  in  Miss  Judith's  affairs,  she 
couldn't  for  her  life  keep  her  soul  from  swelling 
with  delight  at  possession  of  the  rightful  inspi- 
ration to  all  her  faculties. 

For  she  was  a  born  story  teller.  And  never  did 
a  narration  get  more  good,  and  a  nicer  setting 
out  at  the  hands  of  an  owner.  Even  a  thread- 
bare fact  became  a  perfect  mine  of  interest. 
Before  she  got  through  with  it,  it  was  invested 
with  a  certain  mysterious  richness  that  might 
pay  well  for  the  digging. 

In  all  social  affairs,  therefore,  and  the  secret 
under-current s  of  life  that  were  not  yet  news, 


48  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

the  little  dressmaker  was  considered  by  all  to 
be  the  very  highest  authority.  And  in  virtue 
of  this  choice  gift,  aside  from  her  undoubted 
skill  in  her  trade,  many  careful  housewives 
who  would  otherwise  have  contrived  to  accom- 
plish the  dressmaking  duties  of  their  homes,  man- 
aged in  some  way,  by  scrimping  and  pinching, 
to  eke  out  enough  to  hire  Miss  Scarritt's  scissors 
and  thimble  for  a  few  days  of  solid  enjoyment. 
Here  was  now  enough  to  keep  her  keen  little 
tongue  busy  for  one  spell. 

"I  never  see,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bassett,  the 
shoemaker's  wife,  who  had  secured  the  little 
dressmaker's  services  for  one  day,  under  plea 
of  "most  freezin'  to  death  in  my  thin  alpacy" 
—  "sech  a  mysterious  dealin'  of  Providence  as 
to  take  off  Mr.  Pettibone  —  Have  some  more 
quince  sass,  Miss  Scarritt ;  do  !  You  needn't  be 
a  mite  afeard  of  it.  I  made  up  a  lot  this  fall, 
so's  to  have  plenty." 

As  Miss  Scarritt  met  that  delicacy  at  nearly 
every  house  on  her  rounds,  it  being  a  good  year 
for  quinces,  she  declined  with  no  great  inward 
disappointment. 

"Do,"   urged   her   hostess.     "Janey,    git    some 


MISS  JUDITH  DECIDES  MATTEES.  49 

more.  Fill  up  the  dish,  an'  then  I  guess  there 
won't  nobody  be  scat  at  takin'  some.  Well,  as 
I  was  a  sayin',  I  dunno  when  I've  been  more 
surprised  than  I  was  when  I  heard  that  Mr. 
Pettibone  was  took.  'Twas  so  mysterious ! " 

"'Twasn't  mysterious  at  all,"  said  the  dress- 
maker, with  a  little  snort,  and  passing  her  cup 
for  another  filling  of  tea. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bassett, 
while  the  shoemaker,  and  each  one  of  the  children, 
laid  down  knives  and  forks  to  look  at  her. 

"If  folks  start  to  help  along  things  themselves," 
said  little  Miss  Scarritt  calmly  —  "not  much  sugar, 
remember,  Mis.  Bassett — why,  they  can  most 
generally  do  it.  An'  then  Providence  catches  all 
the  blame." 

"Warn't  it  heart  disease?"  asked  Mr.  Bassett,  in 
stolid  surprise;  "I  heerd  so;  an'  everybody  says 
'twas." 

"An1  so  'twas,"  cried  the  little  dressmaker; 
"but  ef  you  set  out  to,  you  can  give  your  heart 
a  hist  towards  the  grave.  There  ain't  nothin' 
to  hender,  's  I  know  of." 

"What'd  he  do?"  asked  Mrs.  Bassett  quickly, 
sticking  her  long  neck  eagerly  forward,  while  her 
sharp  black  eyes  glistened ;  "  I  thought  'twas  queer 


50  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

when  he'd  lived  so  long  amongst  us,  to  be  took  with 
that  complaint  without  warnin'.  Do  tell,  now  —  " 

"Well,  'taint  a  very  good  thing  when  a  man 
ain't  strong  an'  is  somewhat  along  in  years," 
observed  Miss  Scarritt  quietly,  and  fixing  her 
small  gray  eyes  meditatively  on  Mrs.  Bassett's 
father,  who,  having  the  privilege  of  living  with 
his  daughter,  usually  performed  a  few  little 
tasks  —  "for  pleasure,"  as  she  always  explained 
—  "to  go  out  into  a  woodshed,  an'  stay  a-stretchin' 
an'  strainin',  to  pile  up  wood — land  knows  how 
long!  most  two  hours  I  guess  —  an'  — " 

"  No,  'taint,  'taint,"  cried  Mrs.  Bassett  quickly. 
"  Do  take  another  biscuit,  Miss  Scarritt ;  do ! 
They  ain't  as  good  as  usual.  My  oven  wouldn't 
bake,  somehow.  An'  Ben,  pass  the  cake.  Well, 
I  sh'd  a-thought  Judith  could  a-fixed  the  old 
man  up  when  he  came  in,"  she  added,  with  a 
mild  venom  in  her  tones.  "  Daughters  can  do 
so  much  if  they  have  a  mind  to  ; "  and  she 
glanced  over  at  the  bent  figure,  enjoying  the 
unusually  fragrant  tea. 

"Yis,  ef  they've  a  mind  to,"  repeated  Miss 
Scarritt,  still  regarding  the  old  man  opposite. 
Then  her  temper  flamed  up.  "Did  you  s'pose, 
Mis.  Bassett,"  she  snapped  out,  and  turning  around 


MISS  JUDITH  DECIDES  MATTERS.  61 

on  that  good  lady,  between  whom  and  herself 
there  was  no  love  lost,  "that  Judith  Pettibone 
didn't  do  every  thing  under  the  sun  an'  moon 
that  she  could  think  of  for  that  pa  of  hers  ? 
that  is,  she  tried  her  best,  but  he  wouldn't  take 
it.  She  couldn't  make  him.  La!  don't  I  know? 
Didn't  I  see  it  myself?" 

She  gave  a  final  snap  at '  all  the  venom  that 
might  be  in  store  in  her  hostess'  big  frame,  then 
plunged  on:  "An'  when  folks  is  to  be  sent  for, 
it  does  seem's  ef  they  couldn't  do  enough  to 
run  half  way.  Now,  a  leetle  mite  o'  ginger  tea 
would  a  set  him  up,  but  mercy!  as  I  said 
before,  you  couldn't  make  him  see  it,  an'  every 
word  only  made  him  worse ;  so  Judith  had  to 
give  it  up.  An'  then  in  came  Mr.  Folinsbee 
on  top  of  that,  with  that  teeterin'  piece  o'  news 
about  Square  Higgins  —  I  declare,  tough  as  I 
am,  I  thought  I  sh'd  a  dropped,  it  gave  me 
such  a  turn !  An'  how  d'ye  s'pose  poor  old 
Mr.  Pettibone  could  stand  it!  'Twould  a  been 
a  miracle  if  he  had  a  lived.  An'  then  folks 
talk  about  the  'mysterious  dealin's  of  Providence!' 
I  think  the  'dealin's'  is  pretty  open,  myself." 

"Well,  I  s'pose  Judith  will  live  on  just  the 
same,"  said  Mrs.  Bassett,  having  no  further 


52  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

interest  in  the  present  direction  of  the  conversa- 
tion, "an*  John  will  move  up  on  to  the  hill, 
won't  he  ? " 

"  I  ain't  at  liberty  to  tell  every  thing  I  know," 
said  the  little  dressmaker  cautiously,  who,  not 
having  been  informed  by  Miss  Judith  as  to  her 
plans,  chose  to  keep  dark  on  the  subject  of 
her  ignorance.  "  'Tain't  best,  you  know,  to  .talk 
some  things  over,"  she  added  with  the  air  of 
one  proffering  the  most  valuable  advice.  "  You'll 
all  hear  in  plenty  of  time." 

"Well,  it's  the  only  thing  she  will  do,  of 
course,"  observed  Mrs.  Bassett,  still  hoping  that 
Miss  Scarritt  might  relent  and  furnish  more 
information ;  "  for  John'll  be  crazy  to  move  out 
of  that  little  house  that  can't  hardly  hold  him 
an'  his  wife  an'  that  pack  o'  children  ;  an'  of 
course  Judith  won't  budge,  'cause  he's  got  to 
take  care  of  her.  The  will  put  it  pretty  strong, 
I  hear ;  and  it's  a  mercy." 

"John  Pettibone'll  be  glad  enough  to  do 
his  duty  by  Judith,"  cried  little  Miss  Scarritt, 
flaring  up  again;  who,  although  she  was  burst- 
ing with  indignation  at  the  whole  Pettibone 
affair,  wasn't  going  to  play  into  the  hands  of 
gossiping  spite,  not  if  she  could  help  it.  "He 


MISS  JUDITH  DECIDES  MATTERS.  63 

sets  a  sight  by  that  sister  of  his,  as,  indeed, 
he  ought  to ;  for  if  ever  there  was  a  woman 
that  was  a  saint  on  earth,  it's  Judith  Petti- 
bone.  An'  'taint  alone  because  she's  a  professer 
in  good  an'  reg'lar  standin'  ;  she's  good  on  top 
o'  that."  And  Miss  Scarritt  pushed  back  her 
chair,  to  brush  the  crumbs  out  of  her  lap. 

"  I  guess  I  can  git  along  now  on  the  dress 
myself,"  said  Mrs.  Bassett,  looking  over  on  the 
pile  of  work ;  "  you  needn't  come  to-morrer, 
Miss  Scarritt  ;  I  must  manage  somehow,  the  times 
is  so  hard,"  she  said  with  a  plaintive  look  at 
her  husband. 

"  I  hadn't  no  intention  of  comin',"  said  Miss 
Scarritt,  slipping  into  her  things,  "  not  the  least 
in  the  world.  One  day,  I  said,  Mis.  Bassett, 
you  know,  jest  to  oblige." 

"  Well,  here  is  your  money,"  said  the  shoe- 
maker's wife,  handing  her  a  wad  of  dingy  paper  ; 
"seventy-five  cents  do  you  have  now,  Miss 
Scarritt  ? " 

"  Seventy-five  cents  I  have  now,"  repeated 
little  Miss  Scarritt,  in  her  most  business  tone, 
"  but  I'm  a  goin'  to  raise  ;  that  is,  where  I 
give  up  engagements  an'  disappint  other  folks 
an'  myself." 


54  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  You  hain't  raised  yit,  have  you  ? "  cried 
Mrs.  Bassett  in  alarm ;  "  why,  ef  I'd  known  that, 
I  couldn't  have  afforded  it  noway!" 

"  I  hain't  yet,"  said  the  little  dressmaker,  by 
a  violent  effort  keeping  from  giggling,  "  but 
I  shall  next  time,  Mis.  Bassett." 

"  I  hain't  heard  ten  cents'  worth,"  exclaimed 
the  discomfited  Mrs.  Bassett,  returning  to  the 
kitchen,  after  seeing  the  little  figure  trip  cheerily 
down  the  road  ;  "  an'  I  could  a  done  every 
speck  o'  that  dress  myself.  Janey  Bassett,  ef 
you  don't  stop  a  lettin'  that  dirty  cat  in  the 
house,  I'll  know  the  reason  why !  Shoo !  scat, 
you  !  " 

"Oh!  ma,  it's  cold,"  implored  Janey,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes ;  "  do  let  her  come  in.  I'll 
keep  her  in  the  corner." 

"  You'll  keep  yourself  there,  more  like," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Bassett,  shutting  the  door  with 
a  bang,  and  coming  back.  "  Come,  pa,  take 
your  candle  an'  go  to  bed.  You're  better  off 
there,  an'  I  want  the  room  by  the  table  to 
sew." 

"I  thought  I'd  set  up  a  spell  to  read,"  said 
the  old  man  in  a  trembling  voice,  looking  up 
from  the  weekly  newspaper. 


MISS  JUDITH  DECIDES  MATTEE8.  55 

"Nonsense!"  ejaculated  his  daughter;  "it's 
no  time  for  you  to  read  by  candlelight.  You're 
a  great  deal  better  off  a-bed.  Here,  take  your 
light  ! " 

The  old  man  laid  down  the  paper  with  a 
sigh,  took  off  his  spectacles,  wiped  them  care- 
fully, and  replaced  them  in  their  case.  Then 
he  put  out  a  trembling  hand  for  the  candle, 
and  went  slowly  out  of  the  room. 

The  little  dressmaker  turned  down  the  lane 
from  the  shoemaker's  house,  into  the  turnpike, 
and  bent  her  steps  determinedly  toward  the 
homestead  on  the  hill. 

"  John  won't  be  there  to-night,"  she  said  to  her- 
self;  "I  guess  that's  the  reason  Judith  sent  for  me 
as  soon  as  she  heard  he  was  going  to  Franklin. 
So  there'll  be  a  nice  spell  to  talk." 

Which  was  all  the  remark  she  vouchsafed  to 
herself,  trotting  on  so  briskly,  that  before  long  she 
reached  the  big  poplars  that  guarded  the  old  home- 
stead. Wending  her  way  in  between  them,  she 
hurried  along  up  the  box-bordered  path  that  ran 
around  the  side  of  the  house.  Miss  Judith  heard 
her  coming  in  through  the  back  entry,  and  opened 
the  keeping-room  door. 


56  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"Well,  Samantha,  you're  nice  and  early,"  she 
said  cheerfully  ;  "  I  didn't  expect  you  for  a  half 
hour  yet." 

"  'Twas  kinder  hard  to  tear  myself  away  from 
Mis.  Bassett,"  said  the  little  dressmaker  grimly  ? 
"  but  then,  you  know,  I  had  to.  Nice  sort  of 
woman,  ain't  she,  Judith  ? "  she  added,  quickly 
slipping  out  of  her  shawl  and  hood,  and  com- 
ing to  the  fire. 

"  Never  mind  her,"  said  Miss  Judith  smilingly  ; 
"don't  let  us  waste  our  time,  what  little  we've 
got.  I  want  to  talk  with  you,  Samantha,  to- 
night." 

"  So  I  s'posed,"  said  Miss  Scarritt,  deposit- 
ing her  diminutive  figure  in  an  enormous  splint- 
bottomed  rocking-chair,  "  by  your  sendin'.  Well, 
I'm  ready." 

"But  I'm  not,"  declared  Miss  Judith,  stoop- 
ing down  to  lift  the  teapot  from  the  glowing 
coals,  "till  you've  got  something  warm  into  you, 
after  your  cold  walk." 

"'Twould  be  comfortin',"  said  the  little  dress- 
maker, her  keen  eyes  following  her  friend's 
every  movement,  "after  such  pickin's  I've  had 
to-day.  La !  that  stuff  Mis.  Bassett  calls  tea ! " 

"Then   you   must   have  something  to  go  with 


MISS  JUDITH  DECIDES  MATTERS.  57 

it,  in  that  case,"  said  Miss  Judith  briskly  ;  and 
going  to  the  buttery,  she  brought  out  a  big 
blue  plate,  filled  with  enormous  pieces  of  vari- 
ous kinds  of  cake.  "There,"  she  said,  putting 
the  plate  on  the  table,  and  drawing  up  one 
end  nearer  the  fire,  "  now,  then,  we'll  be  com- 
fortable together." 

The  little  dressmaker  took  a  sip  from  her 
generous  cup,  that  steamed  up  comfortingly,  and 
stretched  out  her  feet  for  a  toasting,  Miss  Judith 
letting  her  alone  to  enjoy  it  all  in  silence,  until 
the  last  drop  was  drained,  and  the  final  crumb 
to  which  she  felt  inclined,  was  disposed  of. 
Then  she  began : 

"  Samantha  ? " 

"  Well ; "  Miss  Scarritt  pushed  back  her  chair 
a  bit,  took  her  toes  out  of  the  heat  a  trifle, 
and  looked  receptive  at  once. 

"You're  the  best  friend  I've  got  that  'twould 
do  to  talk  over  some  things  with,"  said  Miss 
Judith,  beginning  immediately,  in  a  direct  way ; 
"  and  I'm  going  to  tell  you  my  plans  for  the 
rest  of  my  life.  Besides,  I  want  your  help  on 
one  point." 

Little  Miss  Scarritt  nodded,  well  knowing  that 
no  words  were  needed  to  help  along  the  plain, 


58  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

simple    speech   that    was  now  fairly  on    its   way. 

"But  in  the  first  place,"  said  Miss  Judith, 
interrupting  herself  to  put  her  hand  quickly  into 
the  capacious  pocket  at  her  side,  "  I  want  you 
to  give  your  attention  to  a  little  matter  here." 
She  drew  out  a  neatly-folded  paper,  tied  with 
a  bit  of  red  string,  which  she  slipped  off,  to 
hold  the  paper  smooth  before  her  friend's  face. 
It  was  the  will  last  executed. 

Miss  Scarritt's  eyes  stuck  out  to  their  widest 
extent. 

"  You  see  that  ? "  said  Miss  Judith  in  clear, 
distinct  tones;  "you  can  read  it?" 

"Yis,  I  can!"  exclaimed  the  little  dress- 
maker, twisting  uneasily  all  over  her  chair ;  "  do 
take  it  away,  for  pity's  sake !  I  don't  never 
want  to  set  eyes  on  it  again." 

"Well,  you  never  shall!"  said  Miss  Judith 
quietly  ;  and  with  a  quick  movement,  she  flung 
it  into  the  bed  of  blazing  coals. 

"  Mer-cy ! '"  screamed  the  little  dressmaker, 
springing  to  her  feet.  "  Pick  it  out !  pick  it 
out  !  You  can't  never  git  it  back,  if  it's  burnt." 

"I  don't  want  to,"  said  Miss  Judith  compos- 
edly. "See!  there's  no  use,  Samantha!"  She 
pointed  her  long  forefinger  to  a  little  gray  fluffy 


MISS  JUDITH  DECIDES  MATTERS.  59 

heap,  where  the  paper  had  been.  "  It's  gone, 
and  I'm  very  glad  !  " 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  sat  down  in 
her  chair. 

"  Well,  /  ain't ! "  cried  Miss  Scarrit,  tumbling 
into  her  splint-bottomed  refuge.  "  I  feel  as  if 
I'd  been  to  a  murder  ;  I  do ! " 

"  Now  there  is  no  temptation  for  you  to  try 
to  help  me,"  said  Miss  Judith,  smiling  over  at 
her;  "for  it  wouldn't  do  any  good,  you  see, 
now  there's  nothing  to  show.  And  I  wanted  you 
to  see  that  it  was  destroyed,  and  then  you 
wouldn't  make  the  attempt." 

"  You've  gone  an'  burnt  up  every  stitch  off'n 
your  back,  an'  every  mouthful  o'  victuals,  an'  — 
an' — every  thin' you  could,"  cried  the  little  dress- 
maker, turning  her  eyes,  which  she  had  been 
unable  to  reduce  to  their  usual  dimensions, 
wildly  on  her  friend,  "an'  you'll  be  an  old 
maid  forever'n  ever,  an'  — " 

"So  I  expect  to  be,"  said  Miss  Judith,  laugh- 
ing in  spite  of  herself. 

"Well,  I  mean  a  poor  old  maid,"  said  Miss 
Scarritt,  gasping  her  way  along.  "  There's  an 
awful  sight  o'  difference,  I  can  tell  you,  Ju- 
dith Pettibone,  between  not  havin'  a  cent  that's 


60  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

your   own,    an'   livin'    in    your   father's    house   in 
plenty  an'  independence  ;  an  awful  sight !  " 

"I  know  that,"  said  Miss  Judith,   "also." 

The  laugh  dropped  suddenly  out  of  her  face, 
that  lighted  up  with  something  so  different,  that 
Miss  Scarritt  stopped  involuntarily  on  the  edge 
of  another  harangue. 

"And  just  because  I  am  an  old  maid,"  said 
Miss  Judith  quietly,  "  I  have  done  this  very 
thing,  Samantha.  My  father's  first  wish,  an' 
the  wish  of  the  blessed  one  that's  gone  before 
him  — "  she  choked  a  little  at  the  mention  of 
her  mother,  and  turned  her  face  aside  for  a 
moment.  Then  recovered  herself  and  went  on  — 
"was  that  the  Pettibone  name  should  never 
come  to  aught  that  would  keep  it  from  ren- 
dering good  service  to  God  and  man." 

Miss  Judith's  head  went  up  unconsciously, 
while  an  expression  of  pride  took  possession  of 
every  feature. 

"  An'  hain't  it  done  good  service  to  God  an' 
man  !  "  cried  the  little  dressmaker  warmly.  "  I 
sh'd  just  like  to  know  that!" 

"  And  what  it's  done  in  the  past,  must  be  fol- 
lowed by  what  must  be  in  the  future,  or  that 
will  all  go  for  nothing,"  said  Miss  Judith  firmly. 


MISS  JUDITH  DECIDES  MATTERS.  61 

"  Families  can't  go  back  any,  Samantha.  That 
won't  do ;  and  John's  children  are  the  only  ones 
to  carry  the  good  work  forward." 

"Johns  children!"  cried  Miss  Scarritt,  in  the 
height  of  exasperation.  "  Well,  let  'em  git  along 
as  they  can.  He  had  no  business  to  go  an'  git 
married  till  he  had  somethin'  to  bring  up  a  fam- 
ily on." 

"  Well,  he  has  got  married  !  "  said  Miss  Judith, 
"  and  the  family  are  here ;  so  I  don't  see  the 
sense  of  going  back  to  the  past,  Samantha.  All 
that  we  can  do,  is  to  look  out  for  the  present 
and  the  future." 

"Well,  then,  you  ought  to  let  'em  shift  for 
themselves,"  said  the  little  dressmaker  in  a 
dudgeon.  "But,  goodness  me!  the  thing's  done 
now,  so  there  ain't  no  use  in  talkin'.  I  declare, 
I'm  as  nervous  as  a  witch  thinkin'  of  it !  " 

She  whirled  the  big  chair  suddenly  around, 
till  she  had  gotten  her  back  squarely  in  front  of 
the  fire ;  then  fastened  her  eyes  determinedly  on 
the  opposite  wall. 

"  There,  I  can't  see  them  coals,  now,"  she 
said ;  "  but  I  can  hear  yo.u  all  the  same.  Do 
go  on ! " 

"  If  John   Pettibone's  children   shift  for  them- 


62  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

selves,"  Miss  Judith  continued  slowly,  "  as  they 
would  be  obliged  to,  if  things  go  on  as  some 
folks  would  like  to  have  them,  there  would  be 
no  Pettibones  pretty  soon,  calculated  to  do  the 
very  things  their  grandparents  longed  for.  This 
you  can  see,  Samantha." 

A  silent  wriggle  in  the  old  chair  attested  the 
truth  of  her  words. 
Miss  Judith  went  on. 

"  I  think  you  can  understand,  Samantha,  that 
these  children,  some  of  them,  at  least,  will  well 
repay  any  sacrifice  made  for  their  educations. 
At  all  events,  the  sacrifice  shall  be,  and  the 
trial  made." 

"  Yis,  an'  git  hitched  around  from  pillar  to 
post,  an'  moved  from  one  room  to  another  in 
this  house  where  you've  had  your  say  so  long, 
an'  be  stepped  on,  an'  at  everybody's  beck  an' 
nod,"  cried  the  little  dressmaker  in  a  perfect 
torrent  of  indignation,  leaning  as  far  out  of  her 
chair  as  possible  to  peer  with  one  eye  into 
Miss  Judith's  face.  "  Oh,  don't  tell  me !  I've 
seen  the  thing  work,  time  an'  time  again,  Judith 
Pettibone.  TJia? s  the  way  they'll  pay  you  ! " 

"  I  don't  intend  to  remain  here,"  said  Miss 
Judith,  more  quietly  than  she  had  yet  spoken. 


MISS  JUDITH  DECIDES  MATTERS.  63 

Not  being  able  to  express  her  astonishment, 
the  little  dressmaker  hopped  up,  and  ran  around 
her  chair  to  get  a  better  look  at  her  friend's 
face. 

"That  there  may  be  no  danger  of  such 
things  happening,"  said  Miss  Judith,  fastening 
her  clear  eyes  on  the  anxious  little  face,  "  I 
shall  take  myself  out  of  the  possibility,  even. 
And  besides,  I  don't  think  it's  a  good  thing 
for  sisters  to  live  in  any  brother's  family. 
You  know  I  have  always  said  so,  Samantha." 

"  Where  will  you  live  ? "  gasped  the  little 
dressmaker,  not  stopping  to  testify  to  former 
conversations. 

"  I  have  a  friend,"  said  Miss  Judith ;  and 
then  she  smiled,  and  put  out  her  hand. 
"  Samantha,  may  I  come  to  you  ?  " 

For  the  first  and  only  time  in  her  life, 
little  Miss  Scarritt's  love  for  her  friend  quite 
lost  her  her  head.  She  gave  a  plunge  to 
her  side,  and,  breaking  through  the  stiffness 
that  surrounded  many  a  New  England  woman 
like  a  coat  of  mail,  concealing  the  warm  heart 
beneath,  she  flung  her  arms  around  her  neck 
and  imprinted  a  hearty  kiss  on  the  cheek  near- 
est her. 


64  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

Miss  Judith  sat  up  straight. 

"  Samantha,"  she  said,  "was  that  fffftf" 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  Miss  Scarritt,  coming 
to  and  beginning  to  crawl  back  to  her  chair. 
"That  is,  I  think  it  was,  but  —  I  ain't  sure  of 
any  thin'  lately,  Judith." 

"  I  shall  be  independent,"  said  Miss  Judith, 
with  a  warm  little  glow  at  her  heart,  where  the 
kiss  still  thrilled.  "  Don't  think  it's  robbing 
Peter  to  pay  Paul,  Samantha,"  she  added,  with 
a  small  laugh  ;  "neither  shall  I  steal  your  trade. 
You'll  keep  on  with  the  dresses,  while  /  shall 
tackle  the  coats  and  jackets  for  all  the  young- 
sters for  miles  around." 

"Judith  Pettibone  !  " 

"Judith  Pettibone  it  is,"  said  the  tall  figure 
sitting  erect  with  shining  eyes.  "  But  you  wait 
for  ten  or  a  dozen  years,  when  the  boys  are 
out  of  college,  and  the  girls  from  school,  and 
then  see  if  the  Pettibone  name  is  hurt  any. 
Well,  now  it's  all  settled,  and  I  can  have  a 
talk  with  John  to-morrow,  and  tell  him  my 
decision." 


IN  WHICH  EVERYBODY  SPECULATES.         65 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN    WHICH    EVERYBODY    SPECULATES. 

MISS  PETTIBONE  did  "have  a  talk  with 
John "  next  day,  the  two  shut  up  in  the 
keeping-room  together;  and  his  surprise  at  her 
determined  opposition  to  the  plan  he  fully  sup- 
posed settled,  that  she  should  live  with  him  and  his 
family,  so  far  exceeded  Miss  Scarritt's  indignant 
astonishment,  that  it  was  extremely  hard  to  pacify 
his  wounded  feelings  at  all. 

"  It's  pretty  well,  sister,"  he  declared  in  an 
injured  manner,  "that  you  can't  live  in  the  same 
house  and  keep  the  peace  with  me  and  Gusty. 
Pretty  well,  indeed  !  " 

,"  O  John,  John  !  "  cried  Miss  Judith  in  great 
distress;  and  then  she  added,  "you  know  that 
isn't  in  your  heart  to  believe,  brother." 

"Well,  folks  will  say  so,"  he  cried,  "and  that 
I  drove  you  out,  or  that  you  couldn't  live  under 
the  same  roof  with  us  ;  and  Gusty  never  fights — " 


fc6  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"She's  the  dearest  little  woman,"  exclaimed 
Miss  Judith  warmly,  "  as  you  are  the  clearest 
brother.  If  I  ever  hear  such  a  word  said  in  my 
presence,  John  Pettibone,  it  will  never  be 
repeated  ;  that's  all !  And  I  shall  take  care  that 
such  a  thing  never  gets  said  anywhere." 

"Well,  why  won't  you  come,  then?"  cried 
John  imploringly.  "  You  shall  have  your  say 
about  every  thin';  I  know  Gusty  won't  mind." 

"  And  that  would  be  about  the  worst  arrange- 
ment that  could  possibly  be  invented  !  "  exclaimed 
Miss  Judith  decidedly.  "  Don't  you  see,  I  should 
come  between  you  and  your  children,  who  ought 
never  to  see  anybody  at  the  head  of  their  home 
but  their  own  parents ;  and  'twould  just  about 
spoil  me.  Why,  I  should  be  the  most  disagree- 
able old  maid  in  the  country  !  No,  no  ;  that  won't 
work !  And  besides,  tisn't  the  leading  and  all 
that  that  I  want.  That  isn't  the  obstacle  at  all." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  "  said  John  with  a  puzzled 
face. 

"  Why,  I  have  explained  it  to  you  a  dozen  times 
nearly,  already,"  replied  his  sister,  a  trifle  out  of 
patience.  "  John  Pettibone,  if  I  should  stay  right 
on  here,  there  isn't  one  of  your  children  in  a 
twelvemonth  would  begin  to  think  anywhere  near 


IN  WHICH  EVEEYBODY  SPECULATES.         67 

as  much  of  me  as  if  I  kept  my  own  little  home 
distinct." 

"  Why  not,  pray  ?  "  cried  her  brother,  opening 
his  big  blue  eyes  in  amazement. 

"Because  they  never  do,"  said  Miss  Judith^ 
marking  off  each  syllable  with  her  firm  hand 
on  the  table  by  which  they  were  sitting,  to 
enforce  her  words.  "That's  my  proof.  It's  been 
tried  again  and  again,  John.  Don't  let  us  make 
the  mistake.  The  Lord  never  intended,  I  don't 
believe,  that  an  old  maid  should  be  let  loose 
on  a  family  of  children.  It's  the  worst  thing 
all  around;  and  the  very  mischief's  to  pay  as 
the  result  of  it.  You  know  I've  always  said 
so.  So  it  isn't  any  thing  new  —  the  idea  isn't 
— and  you  know  it,  John." 

"Yes,  I  recollect,"  he  said,  forced  to  admit  it. 
"Well,  where  are  you  going?"  he  asked  finally, 
in  very  much  the  same  tone  the  little  dressmaker 
had  employed. 

Miss  Judith  took  one  long  breath,  and  prayed 
for  strength.  She  was  beginning  to  find  that 
a  quick  settlement  of  all  these  affairs  must  be 
effected,  or  the  result  would  be  disastrous.  So 
she  struck  boldly  out. 

"I  am   going   to   live   with  Samantha  Scarritt 


68  THE  PETTI  BONE  NAME. 

and  her  mother.  I  am  going  to  do  tailoring, 
to  keep  her  company  in  her  dressmaking :  there 
is  no  use  in  saying  one  word,  for  it  is  all 
settled,  and  my  word  is  given." 

"Whew!" 

"John,"  said  Miss  Judith,  as  he  had  started  in 
his  surprise;  and  she  got  up  and  reached  across 
the  table  to  put  her  hand  kindly  on  his  arm, 
"  it  will  be  less  than  a  year  before  you  say  to 
me,  '  It  was  a  wise  thing.'  Mark  my  words, 
John.  And  if,  in  the  meantime,  you  ever  feel 
like  regretting  it  for  one  instant,  think  of  the 
education  your  Tom  will  be  having.  O  brother ! 
if  he  can  only  carry  out  father's  wish,  and,  with 
such  an  education  as  you  can  now  give  him, 
grow  up  to  be  a  good  man,  what  happiness  it 
will  be  to  me !  Think  of  it,  John !  And  then 
there  is  Miriam  and  little  Ira ;  why,  we  can't  let 
him  carry  pa's  name  unless  we  help  him  to  be 
worthy  of  it  and  all  the  rest.  Brother,  I  shall 
live  over  again  in  all  your  family.  Now  let  me 
have  my  own  way." 

He  had  never  seen  her  so  strangely  moved. 
Looking  into  her  eyes,  he  saw  something  that 
he  never  remembered  to  have  seen  there  be- 
fore, and  he  turned  away,  unable  to  bear  the  sight. 


IN  WHICH  EVERYBODY  SPECULATES.         69 

And  so,  on  the  week  following,  Judith  Petti- 
bone  moved  out  of  the  home  of  her  fathers,  to 
make  place  for  the  young  brood  who  were  to  fol- 
low in  those  fathers'  steps  up  to  better,  grander 
results,  and  went  down  to  the  humble  little 
home,  of  the  widow  Scarritt,  and  to  the  loving 
welcome  of  her  friend ;  a  proceeding  that  sup- 
plied the  whole  village  with  plenty  to  talk  about, 
and  gave  an  impetus  to  the  Sewing  Society  and 
the  weekly  prayer-meeting. 

Opinions  were  pretty  well  divided  as  to  the 
wisdom  of  the  course.  Some  said,  "  'Twas  the 
foolishest  thing !  "  while  the  contrary  minds  in 
equal  number  warmly  applauded  it,  and  wished 
more  people  situated  as  Miss  Pettibone  was,  had 
half  her  sense.  While  those  who  saw  a  chance 
for  a  little  scandal,  and  had  their  suspicions  and 
"believe  so's"  all  ready,  were  utterly  dismayed 
and  brought  to  a  complete  standstill  by  the 
evident  hearty  cooperation  and  affection  of  the 
brother  and  sister,  whom,  they  were  ready  to 
believe,  had  quarreled. 

"  She  thinks  a  sight  more  of  him  than  she 
used  to,"  said  one  of  these  kind  friends,  neglect- 
ing her  morning's  work  to  peep  out  of  her 
"best-room"  blinds  to  watch  them  go  by.  "She 


70  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

never  took  his  arm  afore  in  the  daytime  in  all 
this  world." 

"  She's  feathered  her  nest,"  said  a  neighbor 
who  had  "  just  stepped  in  to  borrow  a  flat-iron," 
and  had  stayed  half  an  hour.  "  I'm  sorry  for 
John  ;  I  have  been  all  along.  He  ain't  half  smart 
enough  to  match  her ;  never  was.  An'  Judith 
Pettibone'll  look  out  for  herself,  you  may  be 
sure." 

"  That's  so,  I  do  believe,"  said  the  first  woman, 
coming  back  from  her  post  of  observation  when 
there  was  nothing  more  to  be  seen.  "Well,  I 
must  get  back  to  work.  Yis,  she's  got  quite  as 
much,  I'll  be  bound,  by  old  Mr.  Pettibone's  leavin' 
it  to  John,  with  the  care  of  her  thrown  in,  as 
if  'twas  t'other  way.  John  alwus  was  a  generous 
boy." 

And  so  the  tongues  wagged.  Meanwhile  Miss 
Judith,  having  once  explained  to  the  complete 
vindication  of  her  brother  and  his  wife,  her 
movements  as  coming  entirely  from  her  own  free 
choice,  took  up  her  new  life,  and  let  the  gossip 
have  free  rein  until  it  wore  itself  out. 

Parson  and  Mrs.  Whittaker  alone  remained 
unconvinced,  until  they  saw  John  and  his  fam- 
ily, and  watched  their  actions  narrowly,  day  by 


/.#  WHICH  EVERYBODY  SPECULATES.         71 

day.  At  last  even  the  minister's  wife  was  forced 
to  admit  that  Judith  had  only  herself  to  thank 
for  it  all,  if  she  was  shut  off  from  the  comforts 
of  her  father's  house. 

"For  certainly,  my  dear,"  observed  the  minis- 
ter, as  they  were  plodding  home  from  the 
conference  room  one  stormy  evening,  "he  is 
the  kindest  brother  that  one  could  wish  for. 
Did  you  notice  him  pulling  up  her  shawl 
around  her  after  meeting?  and  then  he  always 
goes  home  with  her ;  and  in  every  way  I've 
noticed  he  tries  to  anticipate  every  want." 

"I  know  it,"  she  admitted.  "Well,  Adoni- 
ram,  it's  one  of  the  strangest  things ;  beyond 
me  to  explain.  If  we  hadn't  known  Judith  so 
many  years,  and  loved  her  so  much,  why,  I 
believe  I  should  begin  to  think  she  was  a  bit 
freaky.  But  that's  impossible,  as  we  do  know, 
and  we  do  love  her.  So  I  don't  know  ho^v  to 
explain  it." 

"  And  not  knowing,  we  shall  be  obliged  to 
let  it  rest,  where  every  thing  else  unexplaina- 
ble  has  to  rest  in  the  end  —  with  the  parties 
themselves.  Well,  here  we  are  at  home.  That's 
ours,  anyway,  Sarah." 

'•  And    because    it    is,"    said    his    wife,     "  and 


72  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

we  can  say  it  so  gladly,  I  want  to  feel  the 
same  for  Judith  and  her  home.  I  should  be 
so  glad  to  keep  her  from  any  more  sorrow." 

"  Well,  she  looks  comfortable  and  unshaken  as 
ever,"  said  the  minister,  turning  in  at  his  own 
gate,  with  a  vision  of  dressing-gown  and  slippers 
dancing  before  his  tired  eyes. 

"  Yes,  that's  it,"  cried  his  wife.  "  '  Unshaken 
as  ever.'  That's  the  very  thing.  I  declare,  hus- 
band, I  don't  believe  any  of  us  have  begun  to 
know  Judith  Pettibone  yet." 

But  when,  after  getting  smoothly  settled  in 
her  new  home,  and  helping  her  little  sister-in- 
law  to  domesticate  her  young  brood  into  the  old 
homestead  on  the  hill,  Miss  Judith  announced 
through  Mrs.  Parson  Whittaker,  that  she  should 
be  open  to  engagements  from  all  those  who  had 
boys  to  wear  out  jackets  and  trousers,  to  supply 
the  same,  public  opinion  took  another  whirl, 
and  again  the  town  was  full  of  conjectures  and 
rumors,  flying  like  shuttlecocks  from  house  to 
house. 

"  To  think  of  a  Pettibone  doin'  such  a  thing  !  " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Bassett,  the  shoemaker's  wife, 
in  the  intermission,  on  the  following  Sabbath. 


IN  WI1ICII  EVERYBODY  SPECULATES.          73 

"  Mis.  Folinsbee,  your  dress'll  ketch  ef  you  stand 
so  near  the  stove.  I'm  glad  on't  now.  Some  of 
their  pride's  got  to  tumble." 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  should,"  said  Deacon 
Badger  dryly.  "  Miss  Pettibone  ain't  driv'  to  it, 
Mis.  Bassett.  She'd  druther ;  an'  I  donno's  it's 
anybody's  business  to  say  any  thin'  agin'  it,  any 
way.  For  my  part,  I  sh'll  give  her  all  our  boys' 
clothes  to  make,  an'  I  wish  there  was  more." 

"So  sh'll  I,"  spoke  up  a  round,  apple-faced 
woman,  who  had  a  whole  houseful  of  boys. 
"  That'll  set  her  up  alone  —  te-hee-hee !  An' 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  shan't  scold 
'em  ef  they  do  scrub  out  their  knees  an'  elbows. 
It'll  be  all  grist  to  Miss  Judith's  mill.  She's 
helped  me  times  enough  when  I  was  poor." 

"  It's  a  grateful  heart  that  can  carry  a  memory 
as  far  back  as  that,"  said  the  minister's  voice 
coming  up  back  of  them. 

"O,  Mr.  Whittaker!"  said  the  apple-faced 
woman,  starting  and  whirling  around,  her  rosy 
face  getting  rosier  still ;  "  I  didn't  know's  you 
was  there !  Well,  it's  true,  every  word  on't. 
An'  I  hope  I  shan't  be  left  to  forget  it,  all 
Miss  Judith's  kindness  to  me.  An'  I  say  — " 
here  the  apple-faced  woman  lowered  her  voice 


74  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

to  an  impressive  key  and  looked  around  on  the 
circle  surrounding  the  big  stove — "ef  she  chooses 
to  take  in  jackets  an'  trousers  to  make  for  the 
children,  why,  we'd  all,  who've  got  boys,  orter 
give  her  a  lift.  I  will,  until  mine  are  ready  to 
put  on  swaller-tails.  Who  else  will  ?  " 

"I  —  and  I  —  an'  me" —  went  on  through 
the  group,  from  one  to  another. 

"You  have  a  good  number  of  supporters, 
Mrs.  Parsons,"  said  the  minister,  smiling  approv- 
ingly ;  "  and  it  looks  well  for  Miss  Ju  — " 

"Sh  !  "  said  one  of  the  matrons  in  a  stage 
whisper;  "here  she  comes." 

Miss  Pettibone  came  down  the  aisle,  hold- 
ing the  hand  of  a  child,  who,  for  some  reason 
or  other,  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  out 
into  a  perfect  roar  of  indignation  and  distress. 
Its  hat  was  crushed  over  its  eyes,  so  that 
nothing  of  its  face  was  to  be  seen,  and,  as  it 
stumbled  aimlessly  along,  muffled  sobs  came 
forth,  that  boded  ill  for  the  quiet  of  the  old 
church. 

"  One  of  '  brother  John's  children,'  "  whispered 
an  old  lady  to  her  next  neighbor.  "  They're 
alwus  a-taggin'  after  Judith." 

"  Bobby   Jane,    you    must    not    act  so ! "    cried 


IN  W  IIK  II  EVERYBODY  SPECULATES.         75 

a  tall  boy,  rushing  up  behind  his  aunt  and  the 
small  figure  as  they  proceeded  on  their  way  down 
the  aisle. 

"Oh,  I  will  —  I  will!"  cried  the  child, 
scuttling  up  to  Miss  Judith's  side,  and  burst- 
ing out  afresh  with  every  step.  "  I  will  go 
home  with  my  aunt  Judy.  Oh,  I  will  !  I  will  ! 


"No  you  mustn't  either,"  cried  the  boy;  "let 
go  of  her  hand  now.  She  can't  be  bothered 
with  you.  Let  go,  Bobby  Jane." 

"Oh,  I  will  —  I  will  —  I  —  "  came  in  vocif- 
erous shouts  from  underneath  the  small  hat  ; 
while  the  wildest  of  kicks  on  all  sides  where  the 
interferer  of  her  peace  was  supposed  to  be, 
showed  plainly  her  intentions  in  that  direction. 

"  Let  her  alone,  Tom,"  said  Miss  Judith 
quietly,  "  I  will  see  to  her.  You  tell  your  mother 
that  she  needn't  worry  about  her." 

"  Won't  she  plague  you  ?  "  asked  the  boy, 
standing  still. 

"When  I  get  tired  of  her  I'll  bring  her 
back,"  said  Miss  Judith  with  a  bright  smile. 

"  There,  I  am  goin',"  said  the  small  voice, 
coming  out  of  her  shouts  with  a  gasp  ;  and 
she  jammed  up  the  hat,  which,  in  her  woful 


76  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

state,  she  hadn't  thought  it  worth  her  while 
to  touch,  and  brought  into  view  one  black 
eye,  while  she  vigorously  employed  the  disen- 
gaged mitten  in  wiping  off  the  tear-stains 
from  her  chubby  countenance.  "  So !  to  stay 
al  —  1  day  with  my  aunt  Judy;  so!" 

"  Not  all  day,  Bobby  Jane,"  said  the  tall 
boy,  looking  back;  "you'll  wear  aunt  Judith 
out.  Don't  tease  her  now." 

"All  day!"  said  the  child  decidedly,  and 
hanging  on  to  the  strong  hand  for  dear  life. 
"  I  ain't  ever  comin'  home  any  more." 

"You'll  have  to  live  with  some  of  them, 
Miss  Judith,"  said  Parson  Whittaker  with  a 
laugh ;  "  I  don't  see  but  what  it's  a  foregone 
conclusion.  Bobby  Jane,  won't  you  come  home 
with  me  ?  Jimmy  would  be  very  glad  indeed 
to  see  you." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  Jimmy,"  said  the  child 
stoutly ;  "  I  want  my  aunt  Judy."  With  that  she 
began  to  tug  violently  at  the  end  of  the  shawl 
nearest  her,  and  clamor  to  go. 

" '  A  little  child  shall  lead  them,'  said  the 
minister  thoughtfully,  looking  after  them  as  they 
went  down  the  steps. 

"  Well,  she's   the  most   foolish  woman   I  ever 


IN  WHICH  EVERYBODY  SPECULATES.         77 

see,"  declared  Mrs.  Bassett,  determined  to  blame 
somebody  before  she  went  home ;  "  an  'the  idea 
of  givin'  a  child  such  a  name.  It's  the  most 
redicerlous  thing." 

"  Why,  the  child  called  herself  so  at  first,"  said 
Mrs.  Whittaker  quickly,  "  you  know  that,  Mrs. 
Bassett,  don't  you  ?  At  least,  the  Bobby  part  ; 
she  tucked  it  on  to  the  Jane,  so  they  let  her  keep 
it." 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Bassett,  accepting 
the  explanation  she  knew  perfectly  well  before; 
"  she's  more'n  half  a  boy.  Acts  like  Kedar  the 
whole  time.  Well,  speakin'  of  Judith  Pettibone, 
if  she  won't  live  at  the  house  an'  hold  up  her 
head  where  she's  ben  so  long,  she's  dretful  nigh- 
sighted  to  have  'em  all  runnin'  an'  racin'  after  her 
the  whole  everlastin'  time.  They're  a-cuttin'  by, 
the  whole  kit  of  'em,  every  single  minute  of  the 
day,  goin'  down  to  Miss  Scarritt's.  I  do  admire 
to  see  folks  consistent." 

"  You  can  enjoy  it,  then,  whenever  you  look 
at  Judith,"  said  the  minister's  wife  with  consid- 
erable spirit,  "  for  she's  a  light  and  example  to 
us  all." 

"Oh!  of  course  —  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Bassett 
quickly,  "  I  didn't  mean  nothin'  out  of  the  way, 


78  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

Mis.  Whittaker.     I  only  thought  she  was  a  makin' 
a  slave  of  herself  for  nothin'." 

"  She  is  doing  her  work  in  the  world,  Mrs. 
Bassett,"  said  the  parson  in  a  deep  earnest  voice. 
"It  will  pay — as  the  Lord's  service  always 
does." 


BOBB  Y  JANE  FEELS  CALLED  UPON  TO  A CT.     79 


CHAPTER  V. 

AND  NOW  BOBBY  JANE  FEELS  CALLED  UPON  TO  ACT. 

THE  small  brown  house  with  the  gambrel  roof 
peeping  up  under  "  Merwin's  Hill,"  belong- 
ing to  the  widow  Scarritt,  soon  became  trans- 
formed from  a  stiff  little  dwelling,  where  only 
Miss  Samantha  went  in  and  out  on  her  daily 
rounds,  and  even  the  oat  stepped  in  the  established 
way,  to  a  shelter  for  happy  children's  hearts,  where 
they  loved  to  come,  bubbling  over  with  fun  or 
sorry  and  forlorn  from  some  childish  grief. 

The  path  up  to  the  door  between  the  lilac 
bushes  was  well-worn,  and  the  little  gate  had  be- 
come accustomed  to  its  constant  swinging  by  the 
time  the  spring  blossoms  came,  for  "  aunt  Judy's" 
was  the  place  to  which  all  the  eyes  in  the  old 
homestead  turned  as  the  most  delightful  refuge  in 
existence.  If  they  were  very  good,  they  could 
run  down  for  an  hour  or  two,  or  to  spend  the  day, 
as  the  circumstances  permitted.  And  whenever 


80  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

they  were  naughty,  why,  of  course  they  must  go 
then,  for  aunt  Judith  to  set  matters  straight  and 
start  them  again  on  the  small  upward  road  of 
childish  endeavor. 

So  it  came  to  be  pretty  generally  understood 
that  at  all  hours  of  the  day  Miss  Pettibone's  small 
nieces  and  nephews  were  to  find  a  welcome  and  a 
hearty  reception  at  the  little  brown  house.  And 
the  little  feet  clambered  confidently  up  the 
crooked  stairs  and  into  the  low-ceilinged  room, 
where  Miss  Judith  sat,  in  the  midst  of  her  snips 
and  bits,  left  after  an  embryo  jacket  or  a  little 
pair  of  trousers  had  sprung  into  existence. 

The  jackets  and  the  trousers  seemed  to  have 
always  been  just  cut  out  before  the  arrival  of  the 
children.  And  they  mourned  greatly  because  they 
never  could  happen  to  be  in  time  to  see  the  process. 

"  If  I  should  come  very  early,  do  you  s'pose  I'd 
ever  see  'em  ? "  asked  Mehitable,  when  aunt 
Judith  tied  on  the  little  red  hood,  one  cold  after- 
noon of  the  early  spring,  and  bade  her  run  home. 

"You  ain't  comin'  as  early  as  I  am,"  cried 
Bobby  Jane,  squeezing  up  for  her  hood  to  be  tied ; 
"  so  !  An'  besides,  I'm  goin'  to  bring  my  ni'- 
gown  next  time,  an'  sleep  one,  two  hundred 
nights,  I  guess." 


BOBB  Y  JANE  FEELS  CALLED  UPON  TO  ACT.     81 

"  Oh  ! "  cried  Mehitable,  twisting  her  fingers 
wistfully.  That  would  be  bliss  indeed  !  But  she 
didn't  say  any  thing ;  and  aunt  Judith's  mind 
being  filled  with  her  work,  she  never  noticed  the 
children's  talk,  but  let  them  depart  ;  only  caution- 
ing them  to  hurry  home  before  it  got  dark. 

"  And  take  hold  of  hands,  "  she  called  after 
them,"  and  mind  you  don't  stop  on  the  way.  " 

The  straggling  light  of  early  dawn  came  up 
slowly  over  hill  and  dale,  over  field  and  brook. 
The  little  world  of  Barkhamsted  was  asleep, 
with  the  exception  of  some  enterprising  farm- 
ers, who  always  wouW  get  up  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  and  Bobby  Jane. 

On  the  edge  of  the  big  bed  in  the  old 
square  room,  she  sat,  with  wide-open  eyes 
staring  between  the  high  posts  at  the  little 
window. 

"  It's  most  awful  late,  I  guess,  "  she  said  soft- 
ly to  herself,  afraid  of  waking  Mehitable. 

But  the  small  head  on  the  other  side  of 
the  big  bed  had  no  thought  of  stopping  its 
dreams  thus  early.  So  Bobby  Jane,  breathing 
easily,  stepped  out  as  still  as  a  mouse,  on  to 
the  cold  floor. 

"Ur — r,"     she      said,     taking     up     first     one 


82  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

foot  and  then  the  other;  "I  guess  I'll  get 
into  bed  again — an'  wait." 

But  Mary  Ann,  a  pudgy  child  of  five  who 
had  been  reposing  quietly  in  the  middle,  now 
rolled  over  with  a  sleepy  little  grunt  into 
Bobby  Jane's  vacated  place,  and,  with  a  long 
sigh,  settled  herself  for  another  nap. 

As  there  was  now  no  alternative,  Bobby  Jane 
had  to  stay  out  in  the  cold.  So,  sitting  down 
by  the  side  of  the  bed,  she  drew  on  her 
shoes  and  stockings,  thinking  busily  all  the 
while. 

"She  won't  know  I'm  gone  —  an'  then  I 
guess  I'll  see  aunt  Judy  cut  out  lots  an'  lots 
of  jackets,  an' — I'll  stay  to  breakfast  —  an'  I 
mustn't  forget  my  ni'-gown,  an' —  " 

But  Bobby  Jane  having  by  this  time 
arrayed  her  feet,  succeeding  in  tying  the  rusty 
shoe-strings  in  a  manner  satisfactory  to  her- 
self, at  least,  she  started  up  and  went  around 
the  big  room  on  her  tiptoes,  with  one  eye 
constantly  on  the  four-poster  and  its  contents. 

As  it  was  a  little  difficult  to  dress  under 
such  circumstances,  she  concluded  to  abridge 
the  operation  as  much  as  possible.  So,  leaving 
off  such  pieces  of  clothing  as  she  considered 


BOBB  T  JANE  FEELS  CALLED  UPON  TO  ACT.    83 

superfluous,  she  rolled  up  the  little  night-dress, 
and  started  softly  down-stairs. 

"  I  donno  where  my  sack  is, "  she  said  to 
herself,  taking  hold  of  the  railing,  and  observ- 
ing the  greatest  care  that  the  old  stairs  should 
not  spoil  all  by  creaking,  "nor  my  hood  — 
oh  dear  !  I'll  go  without ;  I  can  run ;  an'  when 
I  do  get  to  aunt  Judy's  I'll  be  as  warm  as 
toast.  " 

The  very  thought  of  "  Aunt  Judy "  pro- 
duced such  a  warming,  comforting  effect,  that 
Bobby  Jane  opened  the  big  door  and  went 
quickly  out,  with  no  thought  of  the  darkness, 
nor  the  chill  air  that  greeted  her. 

Skipping  over  the  hard  ground  with  her 
little  bundle  tightly  clasped  within  her  arms, 
she  had  proceeded  quite  a  distance  from  the 
big  old  house,  that  loomed  up  in  the  gray  light 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  when  she  heard  a  voice, 
and  then  steps  coming,  and  then  another  voice. 

As  quick  as  a  flash,  she  scuttled  over  the 
old  stone  wall,  and  tumbled  down  with  her 
bundle,  underneath  a  small  thicket  of  scrub 
oaks,  where  she  huddled  in  a  little  heap  close 
to  the  damp  ground. 

"  They'll    send    me     home, "     she     muttered, 


84  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"whoever  'tis,  an'  then  Hetty'll  run  over  after 
breakfast — an' — an'  — " 

Her  teeth  fell  to  chattering  at  this  point, 
so  that  all  her  attention  was  soon  directed  to 
those  useful  members  and  the  chills  that  now 
began  to  run  up  and  down  her  small  spinal 
column,  while  she  rubbed  her  hands  and 
hugged  up  the  bundle,  in  the  vain  attempt  to 
keep  warm. 

The  feet  stopped  just  on  the  other  side  of 
the  wall,  but  the  voices  went  on. 

"Yes,"  said  one.  "Now,  Deacon,  I'm  glad 
I  met  you.  Seems  funny  for  you  to  be  out 
so  arly.  "Taint  as  if  you  couldn't  call  no 
minute  your  own,  like  me.  " 

"  Nothin'  but  sickness  would  a  took  me 
out, "  said  the  other  voice  ;  "  but  my  wife's  sis- 
ter is  down  with  newmony  —  Adeline's  over 
there,  an'  she's  just  sent  Baker's  boy  arter 
me.  I'm  afraid  poor  Loulsy  ain't  a  goin'  to 
weather  it.  " 

"Sho!  now,  that's  too  bad,"  said  the. neigh- 
bor sympathizingly.  "  Have  Doctor  Pilcher  ?  " 

"  Yis,"  said  the  Deacon  ;  "  of  course.  There 
ain't  no  one  else  to  have.  An'  besides,  Pil- 
cher's  a  good  man.  He  knows  what  he's  about.  " 


BOBB  Y  JANE  FEELS  CALLED  UPON  TO  A  CT.     85 

"  Well  now,  Deacon  Badger,  "  said  the  other 
voice  decidedly,  "  there's  two  opinions  on  that 
pint,  an'  I'll  give  you  mine.  Ef  I  wanted 
Louisa  to  step  into  her  grave  afore  her  time, 
why,  I'd  jest  cut  sticks  for  Doctor  Pilcher. 
He  don't  know  nothin',  to  begin  with,  an'  he 
thinks  he  knows  all  creation  ;  so  he  jest  stuffs 
people  with  his  old  drugs  an'  kills  'em,  Dea- 
con Badger.  Fact ;  I  think  my  boy'd  a  been 
alive  this  very  day  ef  I'd  a  kep  him  out  of 
Doctor  Pilcher's  clutches.  " 

"Oh,  no,  I  guess  not,"  said  the  Deacon  in  a 
soothing  voice.  "Well,  I'm  willin'  to  run  my 
chances  in  Doctor  Pilcher's  hands.  An'  Loulsy's 
alwus  had  him.  He's  begun  the  case,  an'" — 

"  An'  he'll  finish  it,  "  said  the  other  grimly. 
"  Well,  as  you  say,  I  don't  suppose  you  can 
do  nothin'  now,  Deacon.  Of  course  folks  has 
their  own  idees,  an'  they  certainly  orter  be 
allowed  to  choose  their  own  doctor.  Well, 
you're  in  a  hurry,  an'  so  am  I ;  so  good-day." 

He  flung  his  long  figure  over  the  wall, 
while  the  Deacon's  footsteps  sounded  fainter 
and  fainter  down  the  road. 

Bobby  Jane  gasped  with  terror.  Only  an 
inch,  and  the  big  man  coming  over  the  stone- 


86  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

wall  would  have  discovered  her  hiding-place 
by  nearly  crushing  her  small  body  out  of 
existence.  But  his  foot  swinging  around  con- 
siderately left  just  that  inch,  and  he  was 
already  striding  off  across  the  field,  with  his 
mind  on  his  own  affairs. 

As  soon  as  she  was  fairly  sure  that  he  had 
gotten  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  she  sprang 
up  and  tumbled  speedily  back  again  into  the 
road.  But  here  she  found  that  she  could  not 
possibly  run  on  her  half-frozen,  cramped  little 
feet,  so  a  few  valuable  moments  were  lost 
in  slapping  and  rubbing  them  into  a  state 
suitable  for  the  purpose  for  which  they  were 
intended.  At  last,  being  in  running  order, 
Bobby  Jane  set  out  ;  and  this  time  nothing 
prevented ;  so  that  she  soon  stood  underneath 
Miss  Judith's  window,  clamoring  to  be  let  in. 

Miss  Pettibone  slept  unusually  heavy  that 
morning.  Having  had  an  extra  amount  of 
work  that  had  worried  her  that  week,  because 
every  mother  wanted  her  boys  fitted  out  in 
one  and  the  same  moment,  she  had  pressed 
all  her  energies  to  their  utmost.  And  Miss 
Scarritt  and  her  mother  being  in  the  old 
bedroom  at  the  back  of  the  house,  it  seemed 


BOBB  r  JANE  FEELS  CALLED  UPON  TO  A CT.    87 

as  if  Bobby  Jane  never  would  make  herself 
heard  now  that  she  had  arrived. 

But  following  one  whoop  of  distress  that 
had  all  her  heart  in  it,  she  finally  had  the 
extreme  satisfaction  of  seeing  Miss  Judith's 
window  fly  open,  and  a  white  night-cap  appear. 

"  Oh !  ooh  —  ooh  —  ooh  !  "  cried  Bobby  Jane, 
hopping  up  on  her  toes,  and  waving  the  bundle 
in  delight  at  the  prospect  of  relief. 

"  For  the  goodness  me  ! "  cried  Miss  Judith 
in  astonishment ;  an  awful  dread  seized  her  heart 
that  had  received  so  many  blows  of  late,  and 
she  could  scarcely  get  down  the  stairs  to 
drag  the  little  frozen  thing  in. 

"  Somebody  must  be  dreadfully  sick,"  she 
thought  as  she  hurried  along,  "to  send  that 
child  out  at  this  time." 

But  when  her  eyes  fell  on  the  scantily 
attired  little  figure  of  her  niece,  she  raised 
her  hands,  unable  to  express  her  amazement 
by  any  words. 

"  I've  got  here,"  mumbled  Bobby  Jane, 
scuttling  up  the  crooked  stairs  to  get  to 
aunt  Judith's  fire.  "  Ain't  you  so  glad,  aunt 
Judy  ?  " 

"  Who     is     sick  ?    tell    me    at    once ! "     cried 


88  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

Miss  Judith,  throwing  off  her  head-gear  and 
beginning  to  dress,  making  rapid  plans  mean- 
while. 

"  No  one,"  said  Bobby  Jane,  flinging  away 
her  bundle  delighted,  and  dropping  on  the  old- 
fashioned  carpet  before  the  stove  to  stick  out 
her  toes  for  the  longed-for  warmth.  "  Oh  my ! 
ain't  that  good,  aunt  Judy  ?  Now,  will  you 
begin  to  cut  out  things  ?  Say,  now,  will 
you  —  " 

Aunt  Judith  dropped  into  a  chair  and  looked 
at  the  child  for  about  a  moment. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  can't  scold  you  till  I 
get  some  life  into  you.  If  you  haven't  caught 
your  death,  I  miss  my  guess!  Now,  Bobby 
Jane,  do  you  just  scramble  into  the  bed  there, 
and  pull  the  clothes  up  tight,  and  do  you 
stay  there  till  I  tell  you  to  get  out." 

"  Oh !  I  don't  want  to,"  said  Bobby  Jane, 
beginning  to  whimper ;  "  I'm  warm  here.  I 
want  to  see  you  cut  out  things.  Say,  now, 
will  you  begin  ?  say,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Do  you  go  !  "  commanded  aunt  Judith. 

"  Oh  dear,  dear,"  grumbled  Bobby  Jane, 
getting  up  from  the  floor  and  flouncing  over 
toward  the  big  bed ;  "  I —  don't  — want  —  to  —  " 


JiOBR  Y  JANE  FEELS  CALLED  UPON  TO  ACT.     89 

"  And     seeing     you've     brought     along     your 
night-gown,"    said     Miss    Judith     grimly,    going 
over     to     it     and   picking     it     up,     "  why,     you  * 
may  as  well  put  it  on." 

"Oh  no,  no,  no!"  roared  Bobby  Jane, 
pausing  as  she  was  about  to  step  disconsolately 
into  her  prison.  "  That  ain't  for  now.  That's 
for  to-night,  aunt  Judy.  I'm  going  to  stay  all 
night ;  I  am  !  " 

"  Folks  who  come  to  see  me  when  they're 
not  invited,"  said  Miss  Judith  calmly,  "must 
do  as  /  say.  Now,  then,  the  cold's  taken  off, 
so  clap  it  on." 

Seeing  no  help  for  it,  Bobby  Jane  put  on 
her  habiliments  of  woe,  and  tucked  herself 
into  the  big  bed,  while  Miss  Judith  bustled 
around  for  mustard  and  thoroughwort  tea. 

"Drink  it,"  she  said,  coming  to  the  side  of 
the  bed  with  a  big  bowl  of  the  last-named 
decoction. 

"Oh!  I  don't  want  it,"  protested  Bobby 
Jane  in  a  husky  little  voice  ;  "  I  don't." 

"  Mercy !  you're  hoarse  as  a  crow  already," 
exclaimed  Miss  Judith,  "  and  your  cheeks  are 
hot.  Did  you  come  straight  here,  Bobby  Jane," 
she  demanded,  "  and  run  every  step  of  the  way  ?  " 


90  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"No,  I  didn't,"  said  Bobby  Jane,  welcoming 
any  conversation  as  relief  from  the  tea ;  "  I  sat 
<lown  in  some  bushes  while  some  horrid  old 
men  was  a  talkin'.  Oh,  dear,  dear !  " 

"  How  long  did  you  sit  there  ? "  asked  Miss 
Judith  sharply. 

"  I  d'no,"  croaked  Bobby  Jane.  "  Most  two 
hours,  I  guess." 

"  Drink  it  ! "  said  Miss  Judith,  holding  the 
bowl  to  the  small  mouth. 

Bobby  Jane  cast  one  look  up  into  the  face 
above  her,  then  opened  her  mouth. 

"I  don't  —  like  —  it  here,"  she  wailed,  bur- 
rowing deep  in  the  bed  when  the  mixture  was 
well  down.  "Oh!  ugh  —  oh!"  At  that  a 
violent  sputtering  ensued,  attesting  to  the  truth 
of  her  words. 

"And  now  I  expect  your  folks  will  be  about 
worried  to  death,"  said  Miss  Judith,  dressing 
rapidly,  "  and  I  can't  wake  Samantha,  for  it 
will  worry  her  ma.  Let  me  think." 

She  went  over  to  the  window  fronting  the 
road,  and  looked  anxiously  up  and  down. 

"  If  I  could  only  see  somebody  going  up 
John's  way,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Oh!  here 
comes  a  man  ;  he's  headed  that  way;  I'll  ask  him." 


BOBB  Y  JANE  FEELS  CALLED  UPON  TO  ACT.     91 

She  threw  a  big  shawl  around  her  shoulders 
and  waited  till  the  figure  came  nearer.  Then, 
raising  the  window,  she  called  quickly : 

"Will  you  stop  at  John  Pettibone's — the  big 
house  on  the  hill,  and  tell  him  Bobby  Jane  is 
here,  and  ask  him  to  come  down  right 
away  ? " 

"John  Pettibone's?"  repeated  the  voice,  be- 
longing to  a  tall  figure  wrapped  in  a  great- 
coat, whose  face,  being  concealed  under  a  cap 
drawn  down  to  protect  from  the  early  spring 
air,  she  couldn't  see. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated  clearly;  "and  tell  him 
to  come  right  away." 

With  that  she  shut  the  window  and  went 
back  to  stick  mustard  plasters  all  over  Bobby 
Jane's  small  frame  wherever  her  condition 
seemed  to  require  them. 

It  wasn't  in  reality  but  ten  minutes,  though 
it  seemed  to  her  a  good  half  hour,  before  John's 
footsteps  sounded  over  the  crooked  stairs,  and 
his  frightened  face  appeared  in  the  door. 

Miss  Judith  pointed  to  the  bed  where  Bobby 
Jane  had  forgotten  all  her  tribulations  as  far 
as  she  could  in  an  uneasy  sleep,  and,  draw- 
ing  her  brother  out  into  the  narrow  hall,  she 


92  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

gave  him  in  a  few  words  all  the  particulars 
as  far  as  she  knew  them. 

"  Nobody  knows  how  long  the  child  sat  on 
the  damp  ground,"  she  finished  up,  "with 
scarcely  no  clothes  on.  Now,  John,  if  you 
want  my  advice  —  of  course  you  must  do  as  you 
think  best  —  I  should  send  for  Doctor  Pilcher. 
I'll  take  the  best  of  care  of  her  ;  be  glad  to. 
But  she  seems  to  be  taken  differently  from  a 
common  cold,  and  the  tea  and  mustard  pastes 
don't  appear  to  do  a  bit  of  good." 

John  looked  into  his  sister's  face  without  a 
thought  of  going  against  her  opinion. 

"  I'll  go  right  over  for  him,"  he  said.  "  Gusty's 
comin'  —  be  here  in  a  minute ;  but  the  baby 
got  to  cryin'  so  that  she  couldn't  leave  him 
then.  Oh  !  who  was  that  man  you  sent  to  tell 
me,  Judith  ? "  he  asked,  looking  back  on  his 
way  down  the  stairs. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  she  said.  "  I 
couldn't  see  his  face.  Some  one  around  here, 
I  suppose.  Do  hurry,  John  !  " 

"Well,  twasn't,"  said  her  brother,  proceed- 
ing down  the  stairs  and  opening  the  front  door; 
"  I  never  saw  him  before.  I'll  fetch  the  Doc- 
tor, Judith,  as  quick  as  I  can." 


BOBB  Y  JANE  FEELS  CALLED  UPON  TO  ACT.     93 

Doctor  Pilcher,  a  little  man  with  a  thin,  nervous 
figure,  an  extremely  sharp  pair  of  dark  eyes, 
and  a  manner  as  if  the  world  had  given  chase 
to  him  ever  since  he  had  been  born  —  he  pos- 
sessing the  power  to  elude  it  until  the  present 
time — struck  an  impressive  attitude  over  the 
little  figure  in  the  middle  of  the  big  bed, 
nodding  his  head  solemnly  at  Miss  Judith's 
explanations  and  accounts  of  the  remedies  ad- 
ministered. 

John  and  his  wife,  and  as  many  of  the  chil- 
dren as  could  be  spared  from  home,  crowded 
up  around  him,  and  stared  with  all  their 
might. 

"  She  must  have  something  more  than  that," 
said  the  little  Doctor  at  last,  very  pompously. 
And  bending  over  the  small  sleeper,  he  listened 
to  her  breathing. 

Just  at  this  moment  Bobby  Jane  stirred  and 
opened  her  eyes,  and,  seeing  such  a  solemn 
assembly  gazing  at  her,  began  to  cry. 

"  There,  there  !  don't,  dear  !  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Judith,  sitting  down  on  the  bed  to  wipe  away 
the  tears,  while  the  mother  put  her  arms 
around  her  neck,  and  drew  the  little  stubby 
head  close  to  her  bosom. 


04  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"It's  nice  Doctor  Pilcher,"  said  her  father 
coaxingly.  "  And  he'll  give  you  —  " 

What,  he  never  finished  ;  for  Bobby  Jane,  as 
quick  as  a  flash,  brought  her  head  up  out  of 
its  comforting  refuge,  and  burst  out  into  a 
hoarse,  wheezy  scream,  so  terrible,  that  every- 
body started  in  dismay. 

"He'll  stu— uff  me!"  she  wheezed.  "Oh, 
don't  let  him!  don't  let  him!  O  —  oh!  Don't 
let  him  !  " 

She  clung  to  her  mother's  neck  in  such 
terror,  screaming  every  moment,  that  no  one 
could  make  a  word  of  comfort  reach  her  ear. 

"He  killed  some  one  —  he  did!  he  did!" 
she  cried,  between  a  pant  and  a  roar ;  "  Deacon 
Badger  said  so  —  o  !  " 

Little  Doctor  Pilcher  started,  while  every 
drop  of  blood  flew  to  his  face. 

"She's  delirious,"  said  Miss  Judith  calmly. 
"  Now,  Doctor  Pilcher,  I'll  get  you  a  glass  — 
and  you  want  a  spoon,  don't  you  ? "  and  she 
went  rapidly  over  to  the  high,  old-fashioned 
mantel,  where,  in  its  angle,  a  cupboard  with 
numberless  little  shelves  held  her  simple  materia 
medica,  in  the  shape  of  bundles  of  dried  herbs, 
a  few  cough  syrups,  and  several  bottles  of 


BOBBY  JANE  FEELS  CALLED  UPON  TO  ACT.    95 

liniment,  etc.,  together  with  one  or  two  bits 
of  china  of  a  quaint  pattern,  and  an  occasional 
stray  piece  of  silver  that  brother  John  had 
insisted  on  her  taking  from  the  old  homestead. 
With  a  vague  dread  of  something  unpleasant 
impending,  Miss  Judith  flung  open  the  door  of 
her  little  "  Old  maid's  medicine  chest,"  as  she 
called  it,  and  took  down  an  antique  coffee-cup 
and  spoon,  which  she  quickly  presented  to 
the  irate  little  Doctor. 

"  This  will  do,  I  suppose,"  she  said  with  a 
laugh,  holding  it  for  him  to  measure  the  drops 
into.  "And  perhaps  the  medicine  will  be  none 
the  worse  because  our  grandmothers  and  great 
grandmothers  drank  from  the  cup." 

But  all  attempts  at  pleasantry  failed  utterly. 
The  little  Doctor's  mouth  was  set  in  the  grim-, 
mest  fashion,  while  the  angry  blood  still  surged 
all  over  his  face ;  and  his  eyes  were  a  sight  to 
behold  as  he  counted  off  the  drops  that  fell  into 
the  ancestral  cup. 

"  Mercy ! "  thought  Miss  Judith  after  one 
glance ;  "  if  he  hasn't  killed  some  one,  I  don't 
know  but  he  will  now  !  'fc  Then  she  looked  over 
at  John  and  his  wife,  who  seemed  to  have  sud- 
denly had  a  sponge  drawn  over  their  counte- 


96  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

nances,  so  completely  was  every  expression  wiped 
out.  "  Now  then,  brother,"  she  said  in  the 
most  cheerful  manner  possible  as  Doctor  Pilcher 
twisted  the  cork  into  the  phial,  which  he  put 
with  a  vicious  little  click  back  in  his  big  case, 
"you  must  give  the  child  her  medicine,  for  she 
doesn't  know  what  she's  about."  And  she  ex- 
tended the  cup  to  him, 

"  Hey  ? "  said  John.  "  Oh  !  "  and  grasping  the 
cup,  he  came  out  of  his  bewilderment  enough  to 
command  Bobby  Jane  to  open  her  mouth  and 
swallow  its  contents.  Notwithstanding  her  vio- 
lent protest  that  she  didn't  want  it,  and  that 
she  wouldn't  be  stuffed,  it  was  finally,  by  the 
united  efforts  of  all  the  members  of  the  family 
who  v/ere  assembled  around  her  bedside,  forced 
between  her  teeth  ;  then  the  exhausted  relatives 
each  drew  a  long  breath,  and  turned  to  see  what 
was  next  to  be  done. 

Doctor  Pilcher  was  standing  by  the  door, 
pulling  on  his  gloves. 

"  You  won't  need  my  services  again,"  he  said 
stiffly,  his  face  still  red  with  passion,  and  his 
eyes  blazing  on  them  all.  "  She'll  come  out  of 
it  iioiv,  all  right." 

"If    she   isn't   any   better,   we    shall   send   for 


BOBB  Y  JANE  FEELS  CALLED  UPON  TO  ACT.    97 

you,  Doctor  Pilcher,"  cried  Miss  Judith  warmly. 
"Oh,  we  can't  thank  you  enough!" 

"  No  indeed  !  "  echoed  John  Pettibone.  Then 
his  senses  coming  to  him,  he  took  out  his  old 
leather  pocket-book,  and  extracting  a  double  fee, 
he  reached  over  to  the  claw-footed  table,  tore 
off  a  bit  from  one  of  a  pile  of  newspapers,  and 
twisted  up  the  money  in  it.  "There,"  he  said, 
pushing  the  wad  into  the  angry  little  man's  hand, 
"that  won't  half  pay  you,  but  it  will  help  tell 
you  how  we  feel  about  your  saving  the  child's 
life  ! " 

"There's  no  necessity,"  said  the  little  Doctor, 
having  the  greatest  difficulty  in  speaking  at  all, 
"  for  all  this  parade  of  gratitude.  Good-day  !  " 

Vouchsafing  no  other  words,  and  with  a  part- 
ing glare,  he  opened  the  door,  snapped  it  to 
hastily,  and  stalked  down  the  crooked  little  stairs 
like  a  man  who  was  determined  to  have  it  out 
with  any  disturbers  of  his  peace,  whoever  they 
might  be. 


THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

BOBBY  JANE'S   MANAGEMENT   ISN'T  ALTOGETHER  A 
SUCCESS. 

MISS  JUDITH  looked  straight  into  her 
brother's  eyes. 

"  One  of  us  must  go  down  to  Deacon 
Badger's  and  tell  him  about  it,"  she  said 
abruptly,  "for  there's  going  to  be  a  perfect 
tempest  of  words.  You  know  what  a  hot- 
tempered  creature  Doctor  Pilcher  is,  John." 

"Well,  /  can't  go,"  he  said  helplessly. 
"  Mercy,  Judith  !  I  shouldn't  know  any  more 
than  those  tongs  what  to  say  when  I  got 
there." 

She  couldn't  deny  it.  And  going  over  to 
the  bed,  looked  down  into  the  little  face  on 
the  pillow. 

"She's  going  to  sleep,"  whispered  'Gusty 
between  her  tears.  "O  Judith,"  she  cried 
softly,  "do  you  s'pose  she'll  git  over  it?" 


BOBB  Y  JANE' S  MAN  A  GEMENT.  99 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Judith  encouragingly,  "her 
flesh  is  moist  now,  and  her  breathing's  regular. 
And  besides,  a  child  that  can  work  such  a 
lot  of  mischief  as  she  has  this  morning,  will 
be  spared  to  work  a  sight  more.  Don't  you 
be  frightened,  Gusty,  she'll  do  well  enough 
now.  I'm  going  down  to  the  Deacon's,  but 
I'll  be  back  before  you  can  begin  to  miss  me." 

She  tied  on  her  bonnet,  threw  the  big 
shawl  over  her  shoulders,  and  hurried  off  at 
a  lively  pace. 

Going  around  the  turn  in  the  road  that 
brought  Deacon  Badger's  house  into  view,  she 
saw,  to  her  dismay,  that  Doctor  Pilcher's  gig 
seemed  to  be  just  on  the  point  of  moving  off 
from  the  hitching-post. 

"I'm  too  late,  of  course,"  she  said  to  her- 
self; "he's  had  plenty  of  time  to  make  that 
poor  old  man  as  wretched  as  possible.  Well, 
I'll  go  in  and  do  the  best  I  can ; "  and  she 
hurried  around  to  the  side  door  and  went  in 
abruptly. 

The  old  Badger  kitchen  presented  its  cheer- 
iest aspect.  The  glow  from  the  fresh  morning 
fire  in  the  big  fire-place  fell  and  danced  over 
the  square  table  drawn  out  in  the  middle  of 


100  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

the  floor,  set  for  the  breakfast,  and,  breaking  away 
from  this,  essayed  to  light  up  the  low  ceil- 
ing and  the  dark  beams,  playing  in  and  out 
among  the  dried  herbs,  the  red  peppers,  and 
the  various  homely  garden  products  that  dangled 
therefrom,  giving  to  each  a  grace  changeful 
as  the  flickering  light  that  produced  them. 

But  its  loveliest  glow  was  saved  to  invest 
the  young  girl  kneeling  before  the  fire,  with  a 
new  beauty.  Over  her  it  danced  and  played 
tenderly,  as  if  so  bright  a  thing  should  be 
enveloped  in  light  and  happiness.  It  touched 
the  soft  brown  hair,  bringing  out  a  golden 
gleam ;  it  kissed  the  pink  cheek  into  a  rosy 
flush ;  and  lighted  up  the  lovely  eyes  all 
intent  on  her  task.  She  was  trying  to  fry  a 
slice  of  ham  for  the  breakfast,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  quell  the  clamorous  cries  of  several 
children  who  hung  around  her  every  move- 
ment impatiently,  or  drummed  on  the  table, 
demanding  their  morning  meal. 

Over  in  the  further  corner  by  the  east 
window  sat,  in  her  big  chair,  great-grandmother 
Badger,  considerably  along  in  her  nineties,  but 
with  an  eye  like  an  eagle's.  The  firelight 
glinted  along  her  cap-border,  a  little  faint 


BOBBY  JANE'S  MANAGEMENT.  101 

flicker  just  resting  on  the  aged  face,  turned, 
as  the  door  opened. 

"  Why,  Judith ! "  she  cried  as  she  saw  who 
it  was  ;  "I  am  real  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Is  Deacon  Badger  in  ? "  asked  Miss  Judith 
without  any  preamble,  and  going  up  to  the 
old  lady's  big  chair. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  "  great-grandmother's  smile  faded, 
and  she  said  solemnly,  "  LouTsy's  took  worse, 
and  Ad'line  sent  for  him  about  four  o'clock." 

"  I  didn't  know  that  Louisa  was  worse," 
said  Miss  Judith  sympathizingly.  Then  in  a 
flash  shot  through  her  mind  Bobby  Jane's  words. 

"  Yes,"  began  Lucy,  trying  to  slip  two  or 
three  pieces  of  potato  into  the  frying-pan,  but 
only  succeeding  in  landing  them  nicely  on 
the  glowing  coals  beneath. 

"  Here,  let  me  do  that,  child,"  said  Miss 
Judith,  quickly  slipping  off  her  shawl.  "Your 
hands  aren't  big  enough  yet,"  she  added  kindly, 
"for  very  tough  work." 

"Aunt  Louisa's  awful  sick,"  volunteered  one 
of  the  twins,  crowding  up.  "  She's  most  deaded. 
Ain't  breakfast  ready  ?" 

"She's  all  deaded,"  declared  the  other  twin, 
not  to  be  outdone. 


102  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"Here  comes  a  man,"  announced  great-grandma, 
looking  out  of  the  window.  "Why,  it's  Doctor 
Pilcher!  LouTsy  must  be  gone." 

"  Goodness ! "  cried  Miss  Judith,  setting 
down  the  frying-pan  and  its  contents  on  the 
hearth  hurriedly,  "twon't  do  for  him  to  see  me 
here,"  and  she  stepped  into  the  pantry  and 
pulled  to  the  door. 

This  strange  proceeding  on  Miss  Pettibone's 
part  had  the  effect  to  draw  off  the  attention 
of  the  whole  family  from  the  appearance  of 
the  little  Doctor  until  he  began  to  speak. 
Then  they  forgot  every  thing  else. 

"  I've  rapped  till  I'm  tired  at  the  other  door  !  " 
They  couldn't  help  but  look  when  he  snapped 
this  out,  his  face  was  so  red ;  and  his  little 
eyes  had  such  a  ferocious  sparkle  as  he  re- 
garded each  one  of  the  group  as  if  responsible 
for  a  personal  insult  to  him.  "But  it's  all  of 
a  piece  with  the  rest  of  the  insulting  treatment 
I  have  received.  Is  your  grandfather  in  ? "  he 
asked  of  Lucy  abruptly. 

"No,  sir,"  she  answered;  her  eyes  full  of 
wonder. 

"  He's  over  at  Loulsy's,"  spoke  up  great- 
grandma  from  her  window.  "  How  is  she,  Doctor  ? 


BOBBY  JANE'S  MANAGEMENT.  103 

Won't     you    sit    down  ?     Lucy,     get    a    chair." 

"  No,  I  thank  you,"  exclaimed  Doctor  Pilcher 
with  cold  dignity,  waving  off  all  attempts  on 
Lucy's  part  to  be  hospitable.  "I  wouldn't  sit 
down  a  moment  in  this  house;  don't  trouble 
yourself.  You  asked  after  your  daughter, 
madam.  She  is  better." 

The  old  lady  in  her  anxiety  about  her  daughter 
overlooked  his  queer  words  and  manner,  and 
leaning  forward,  she  exclaimed  eagerly,  "  Is  she 
goin'  to  get  well  ? " 

"  Going  to  get  well ! "  repeated  the  Doctor 
irritably ;  "  of  course  she  is,  if  they  follow  my 
directions.  I'll  come  in  again  and  see  your 
grandfather,"  he  said  to  the  children.  "  And 
in  the  meantime,  you  tell  him  from  me,  will 
you,  that  I  shan't  so  easily  let  him  off  for 
what  he's  said  about  me.  And  that  I  con- 
sider him  a  pretty  man  to  be  a  deacon  of  a 
Church!  You  just  tell  him  t/iat." 

With  .that  he  stalked  off  to  his  gig,  climbed 
in,  and  drove  away. 

Miss  Pettibone  stepped  out  of  the  pantry 
into  the  midst  of  the  astonished  children,  who 
had  flown  over  to  great-grandma's  side  in  a 
perfect  whirlwind,  to  know  what  it  was  all  about. 


104  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"To  talk  about  my  son!"  cried  the  poor  old 
lady,  trying  to  get  up  in  her  excitement. 
"  There,  there,  Dicky,  don't  holler  so.  My  son ! 
What  does  he  mean,  Judith  ? " 

"  Won't  he  kill  grandpa  ? "  asked  Dicky, 
stopping  his  deafening  roar  for  just  one  second. 
"  Say,  great-grandma,  won't  he  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  no  ! "  said  great-grandma,  who,  if 
a  centenarian,  had  lost  none  of  her  spirit.  "  He 
can't  hurt  your  grandpa  any.  But  to  think," 
she  cried  indignantly,  and  raising  her  trembling 
withered  hands,  "  that  he  sh'd  a  dared  say  any 
thing  against  that  good  man  !  Oh,  to  think 
he  sh'd  a  dared  ! " 

She  sank  back  exhausted  into  the  depths  of 
her  chair,  while  the  children,  finding  that  their 
grandfather  was  not  to  be  dispatched  immedi- 
ately, for  the  appeasing  of  Doctor  Pilcher's  blood- 
thirsty appetite,  hopped  off  one  by  one,  leaving 
Lucy  with  a  troubled  face  by  the  big  chair. 

"I  can  explain  all  this,"  said  Miss  Judith, 
laying  her  hand  on  the  trembling  one  of  great- 
grandma,  "  I  think  ;  although  how  Bobby  Jane  ever 
got  hold  of  such  an  idea  I'm  sure  I  don't  see." 

And  in  a  few  words  she  laid  before  the  old 
lady  and  the  young  girl  with  the  troubled  face, 


BOBBY  JANE'S  MANAGEMENT.  105 

the  whole  story  that  brought  her  to  them  at 
such  an  early  hour. 

"  Why,  he  never  said  so ! "  exclaimed  the  old 
lady  in  the  greatest  amazement,  when  the  story 
was  finished.  "  Never,  in  all  this  world.  He 
thinks  there's  nobody  like  Doctor  Pilcher  ;  alwus 
did." 

"  He  never  said  so  !  "  repeated  Lucy,  with 
two  pink  cheeks. 

"  Of  course  he  never  did,"  cried  Miss  Judith 
earnestly.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  believe  it  ?  Bobby 
Jane's  made  some  terrible  mistake,  though  I 
can't  see  where  or  how  she  got  such  an  idea," 
she  added,  with  a  puzzled  face.  "  Well,  don't 
you  worry  a  bit  about  it,"  she  said,  changing 
her  tone  to  one  of  great  cheeriness ;  "  it'll  all 
come  right,  I  feel  it  in  my  bones,  Mrs. 
Badger,"  she  added  with  a  laugh.  "  And  as 
soon  as  the  child  gets  better,  I'll  find  out 
what  she  has  heard,  and  straighten  the  whole 
thing  out,  if  it  takes  a  year  and  a  day." 

"  Well,  you'll  do  it,  Judith,  "  said  the  old 
lady,  trying  to  smile,  "  if  anybody  can.  You 
alwus  was  a  good  girl.  "  And  she  smiled  on 
her  affectionately. 

"  Well,    as   my  small  niece  has  taken  it  upon 


106  TIIE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

herself  to  make  such  a  heap  of  trouble,  it's 
no  more  than  right  that  I  should  do  what  I 
can  to  mend  it,"  said  Miss  Judith  quietly. 
"  Goodness !  how  near  Doctor  Pilcher  came  to 
finding  me  here  ! "  she  exclaimed,  while  a  com- 
ical expression  passed  over  her  strong  features. 
"  If  that  wouldn't  have  made  matters  worse ! 
I  thought  the  man  was  driving  away,  and  to 
think  how  I  ran  my  head  right  into  the 
scrape.  What  should  any  of  us  have  done 
without  that  pantry!" 

She  glanced  over  at  it  in  such  a  funny 
way  that  great-grandma  laughed  outright,  which 
was  exactly  what  Miss  Judith  had  intended. 
And  when  she  saw  the  old  lady  cheered  up, 
Lucy  came  out  from  behind  the  troubled  look, 
and  flew  merrily  off  to  the  ham  again. 

"Now,"  said  Miss  Judith,  following  her,  "we'll 
see  if  we  can  get  that  dish  on  to  the  table. 
Those  poor  children  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  They 
must  be  as  hungry  as  beavers.  Where  are 
they  ? " 

"  Out  in  the  wood-shed,  playing,  "  said  Lucy. 
"  I  hear  their  voices." 

"Well,  it's  done,"  said  Miss  Judith,  after  a 
few  moments  of  sizzling  and  sputtering.  "  Now 


BOBBY  JANE'S  MANAGEMENT.  107 

then,  there  it  is  !  "  and  she  slipped  it  off  on 
the  dish,  which  she  set  upon  the  table.  Then 
she  grasped  her  big  shawl.  "  Good-by ! "  she 
said. 

"  Why,  ain't  you  goin'  to  stay  to  breakfast, 
Judith  ? "  called  great-grandma,  dreadfully  dis- 
appointed. 

"  Oh !  I  can't,  "  said  Miss  Judith  quickly. 
"  There's  no  telling  what  will  happen  with 
Bobby  Jane  in  the  case,  "  she  added  merrily, 
and  was  off. 

Bobby  Jane's  mother  sat  by  the  side  of  the 
bed  watching  quietly,  and  Bobby  Jane  herself 
was  in  a  lovely  deep  sleep  when  Miss  Judith 
walked  in  softly  from  her  efforts  at  making 
the  tangled  threads  straight.  The  other  chil- 
dren had  been  sent  home  with  all  manner  of 
comforting  assurances  as  to  their  little  sister's 
state,  and  every  thing  had  now  settled  down 
into  an  appearance  of  convalescence  that  prom- 
ised good  for  the  small  patient. 

'Gusty  looked  up  with  a  glad  welcome  that 
spoke  more  than  her  words.  "  It's  good  to 
see  you  back,  "  she  said. 

Miss  Judith  smiled,  and  cast  a  keen  glance 
around. 


108  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  Has  she  taken  much  medicine  ? "  she  asked 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  Hasn't  taken  any,  "  whispered  'Gusty.  "  She's 
slept  the  whole  time." 

"  That's  good,  "  said  Miss  Judith  approvingly. 
"  Better  than  medicine  any  day.  " 

Just  then  the  door  opened  softly,  and  Miss 
Scarritt's  head  appeared. 

"  I  want  you,  Judith, "  she  whispered,  beck- 
oning violently. 

Miss  Judith  went  over  to  the  door,  when 
the  head  disappeared,  and  the  little  dressmaker 
said  in  her  natural  voice,  standing  back  in  the 
hall,  "  Come  down-stairs  just  a  moment.  " 

"  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter,  Samantha  ?  " 
asked  Miss  Judith,  following  the  tripping  steps 
of  her  little  friend  down  the  stairs. 

"  It's  just  this, "  said  Miss  Scarritt,  going  into 
the  "keeping-room";  "if  you  don't  take  a  bite, 
you'll  go  popping  off  the  handle  yourself.  Here 
you  have  been  racin'  an'  runnin'  ever  sence  that 
young  one  come  here  this  mornin' — land  knows 
what  time  that  was  !  I  don't.  First  place,  waked  up 
in  such  a  scarey  way  was  enough  to  upset  you 
for  all  day ;  an'  you  haven't  put  a  speck  of  any 
thin'  between  your  two  lips,  I'll  be  bound.  " 


BOBBY  JANE'S  MANAGEMENT.  109 

All  this  time  little  Miss  Scarritt  was  skip- 
ping around  from  cupboard  to  table,  her  rapid 
movements  keeping  time  with  her  tongue.  And 
she  now  set  out  before  Miss  Judith  an  ample 
lunch,  to  which  she  implored  her  to  do  full 
justice. 

"  An'  here  comes  mother  with  the  tea,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  Now,  Judith,  you  must  take  some- 
thin'  to  please  her." 

"  Yis,  Judith,  you  must,"  repeated  the  old 
lady,  with  a  trembling  hand  pouring  out  a  hot 
cup;  "you'll  be  sick,  sure  as  the  world!" 

"I'm  certainly  willing  to  be  persuaded,"  said 
Miss  Judith  smilingly.  "  Samantha,  you  are  a 
comforter — if  there  is  one.  This  tea  just 
touches  the  spot,  Mrs.  Scarritt." 

"  I  thought  'twas  pooty  nice,"  said  the  old 
lady,  dreadfully  pleased.  "S'manthy,  have  a 
cup  ? " 

"  I  don't  care  ef  I  do,  mother,"  said  the 
little  dressmaker.  "  Here,  let  me  get  the  cups, 
an'  you  have  a  swaller  too." 

"  No,  you  set  still,"  said  old  Mrs.  Scarritt, 
waddling  out  to  the  kitchen ;  "  tain't  often  I 
git  a  chance  to  wait  on  folks.  You  stay  along 
with  Judith." 


110  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  Well,  I  declare ! "  said  a  pleasant  voice, 
breaking  in  upon  the  cosy  scene.  "  I  was 
afraid  I  should  find  you  half  sick,  Judith." 

"  I  didn't  hear  you  come  in,  Mis.  Whittaker," 
exclaimed  little  Miss  Scarritt,  running  to  get 
a  chair  for  her  minister's  wife. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Whittaker  laughing;  "you've 
no  idea  what  a  comfortable  picture  you  uncon- 
sciously made.  Thank  you,  Miss  Samantha," 
dropping  into  the  chair.  "  Now,  then,  Judith, 
what  is  all  this  about?"  she  asked. 

"  The  same  old  story,"  said  the  little  dress- 
maker, taking  the  words  out  of  Miss  Judith's 
mouth  to  narrate  the  "  goin's  on,"  as  she 
called  it  ;  which  she  did  with  a  gusto,  finish- 
ing up,  "No  matter  where  Judith  is  —  in  the 
big  house  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  or  the  little 
cottage  no  bigger'n  your  thumb  —  everybody 
brings  their  troubles  to  her  pell-mell.  Here, 
mother,  here's  Mis.  Whittaker." 

"  Glad  to  see  you,"  said  old  Mrs.  Scarritt, 
setting  down  her  cups.  "Now,  S'manthy,  you 
git  another  one.  Mis.  Whittaker  must  hev  a 
swaller  too." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  stay,  Mrs.  Scarritt ! "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Whittaker,  quickly.  "Dear  me!  I've  been 


BOBBY  JANE'S  MANAGEMENT.  Ill 

away  on  some  errands,  and  I  heard  all  this 
about  Bobby  Jane ;  so  I  stopped  in  to  inquire. 
But  I  ought  to  be  home  this  very  minute. 
Think  of  me  sitting  down  to  drink  tea  Saturday 
morning ! " 

"  'Twould  be  better  for  you  if  you  did  some- 
times," said  Miss  Scarritt  dryly,  and  sipping 
hers  with  evident  relish.  "  Souls  is  saved  an' 
fetched  into  the  kingdom  jest  about  as  fast  ef 
folks  take  care  of  their  bodies.  You're  a  step- 
pin'  from  mornin'  till  night,  an'  from  Sabba'- 
day  till  Sabba'clay.  Where  does  your  rest  come 
in,  I'd  like  to  know  ? " 

"Oh!  I  get  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Whittaker, 
taking  a  long  breath;  "and  besides,  a  minis- 
ter's wife  ought  not  to  think  of  herself,"  she 
said  with  a  smile. 

"  An'  who  will,  then,"  cried  the  little  dress- 
maker explosively,  "  I'd  like  to  inquire  ?  An' 
why  shouldn't  she  think  of  herself,  poor  thing ! 
Yis ;  an'  then  by-'m-by  down  she  drops,  an' 
the  minister  is  jest  like  an  old  shay  with  one 
wheel  off.  Jest  about  as  much  good  he  does, 
the  rest  o'  his  life ;  that  is,  till  he  gits  an- 
other." 

"  Then  you  wouldn't  think  much  of  the  min- 


112  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

ister  you  are  going  to  hear  to-morrow,"  said 
Mrs.  Whittaker  with  a  spice  of  mischief,  and 
rising  to  go. 

"Why,  isn't  Mr.  Whittaker  going  to  preach?" 
asked  Miss  Judith ;  while  Miss  Scarritt  echoed 
"Isn't  he?"  and  the  little  widow  looked  up 
with  the  same  question  in  her  face. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Whittaker;  "he  was  expect- 
ing to,  but  he  had  an  offer  to  exchange  — 
came  last  night,  or  rather  the  minister  did,  so 
as  to  have  a  little  visit  first  with  Mr.  Whit- 
taker. That  friend  of  his,  you  know,  Judith  ? " 
she  said,  turning  to  her. 

"What,  Mr.  Whittaker's  classmate,  the  one 
that's  just  settled  over  in  Franklin?"  asked 
Miss  Judith,  with  great  interest. 

"Yes,  that  one,"  said  Mrs.  Whittaker;  "the 
Reverend  Mr.  Beebe,"  she  explained  to  the  Scar- 
ritts,  "  and  I  wish  that  my  husband  could  stay 
at  home  and  enjoy  the  whole  of  his  visit,  for 
he  does  think  so  much  of  him ;  always  has. 
The  letters  they  have  written  back  and  forth  — 
well,  they  are  almost  enough  to  rival  the  ser- 
mons, put  them  all  together." 

"  I  wish  Mr.  Whittaker  would  stay  to  home," 
observed  Miss  Scarritt  decidedly,  "an'  the 


BOBB  Y  JAN&  S  MAN  A  GEMENT.  113 

other  man  stay  where  he  belongs.  If  he  hain't 
been  settled  long,  seems  to  me  he  ought  to  stay 
put." 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Whit- 
taker,  starting  for  the  door.  "  You  may  like 
him  now,  ever  so  much." 

Nevertheless  she  was  so  pleased  at  the  trib- 
ute to  her  husband  that  she  lingered,  her 
hand  on  the  latch,  loath  to  go. 

"You'll  get  out  to-morrow,  won't  you,  Ju- 
dith?" she  asked  at  last.  "You  know  they're 
depending  on  you  for  Miss  Frisbie's  class." 

"  If  Bobby  Jane  is  better,"  said  Miss  Judith. 
"  I  think  she  is  going  to  be  by  that  time ;  but 
it  all  depends  on  her,  my  coming  does." 

"Oh,  she's  goin'  to  be  smart  by  that  time," 
declared  the  little  dressmaker.  My  senses !  that 
child  won't  be  long  sick  a-bed.  I  warrant  you 
she'll  be  up  an'  runnin'  all  around  as  peart  as 
a  cricket  before  you  know  it." 

"If  you  can  be  spared,"  said  Mrs.  Whittaker, 
with  an  extremely  anxious  expression,  "you 
mustn't  fail  of  coming,  Miss  Frisbie's  class  is 
a  very  important  one.  You  know  that  yourself, 
Judith,  as  well  as  I  do.  And  it  can't  be  trusted 
to  every  one,"  she  said  as  a  parting  word. 


114  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"Did  you  fix  it  up  about  Doctor  Pilcher?" 
asked  'Gusty  in  an  awful  whisper,  as  soon  as  re- 
freshed and  strengthened  by  her  visit  down-stairs, 
Miss  Judith  appeared  again  in  the  sick  room. 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Miss  Judith,  speaking  in  a 
low  tone.  "  Don't  whisper,  Gusty ;  your  voice 
goes  twice  as  far." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Mrs.  John  Pettibone,  in  a 
worse  whisper  than  before.  "  I  won't ;  you've 
alwus  said  so ;  I  won't.  Well,  is  he  awful 
mad?" 

"  I'm  afraid  he  is,"  said  Miss  Judith  quietly. 
"You  know  his  temper  is  the  worst  of  him, 
Gusty." 

"Oh  dear  me!"  sighed  the  poor  mother;  "what 
shall  we  do,  Judith  ?  He  may  make  a  time,  an' 
then  they'll  git  to  fightin',  an'  they'll  put 
Deacon  Badger  out  of  the  Church.  They  can't 
put  Doctor  Pilcher  out,  because  he  ain't  in  ;  that's 
one  comfort.  But  good  Deacon  Badger  —  oh  dear 
me  !  what  shall  we  do,  Judith  ?  " 

"Nothing,  just  for  a  spell,"  said  Miss  Judith 
with  a  smile.  "  Tisn't  best  to  try  too  much  to 
help  in  a  scrape,  and  get  everybody  by  the  ears. 
I've  explained  it  as  far  as  I  can  to  Deacon 
Badger's  folks.  He's  away  himself,  over  to 


BOBBY  JANE'S  MANAGEMENT.  115 

Louisa  Bennett's  —  Adeline's  sister,  you  know  — 
so  that  when  he  gets  home,  why,  they'll  give 
him  the  messages.  If  that  don't  bring  him 
here,  why,  he  don't  care  much  about  it;  that's 
all ! " 

And  she  was  right.  Just  after  dinner  Mrs. 
John  Pettibone,  having  departed  to  the  old  home- 
stead to  look  after  her  numerous  family,  sent  Me- 
hitable  over  to  wait  on  aunt  Judith  and  amuse 
Bobby  Jane,  should  she  be  in  the  state  to  be 
amused.  But  Bobby  Jane  preferred  to  sleep  more 
than  anything  else ;  and  after  each  nap  would  turn 
over  and  begin  on  another.  So  Miss  Judith,  to 
have  no  wasted  time  on  her  conscience,  brought 
out  a  big  piece  of  cloth,  got  her  sharpest  pair 
of  shears,  and  set  to  work  to  cut  out  a  jacket 
for  the  next  customer  on  her  list,  Mehitable 
hanging  over  her  every  movement  with  the 
most  intense  delight.  And  so,  after  all  that  she 
had  passed  through,  Bobby  Jane  and  the  "  cutting- 
out  "  were  just  as  much  strangers  as  before. 

"Deacon  Badger  is  down-stairs,"  said  Miss 
Scarritt,  bobbing  into  the  room.  Mehitable  was 
humming  away  to  herself  in  intense  enjoyment 
in  the  corner  over  some  bits  of  cloth,  leaving 
Miss  Pettibone  to  baste  in  the  sleeves  in  peace. 


116  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  I'll  set  by  Bobby  Jane  while  you  run  along 
an'  see  him,"  added  the  little  dressmaker  with 
a  grim  smile  of  approval  in  the  direction  of  the 
quiet  bed. 

Miss  Judith  laid  down  the  little  jacket  and 
hurried  off  gladly  to  meet  the  good  man  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  who  was  in  such  a  state  of 
excitement  that  he  hung  on  to  the  railing  to 
conceal  his  impatience. 

"I  — I  want  to  know,"  he  panted,  "  what  is't  — 
all  this  fuss  ?  I  never  said  it,  not  a  word  of  it. 
An'  I  hain't  seen  John's  children  in  a  week  or 
more,  'specially  that  Bobby  Jane.  What  is't  all 
about,  any  way?" 

The  usually  mild  Deacon  thereupon  indulged 
in  a  glare  so  ferocious,  that  Miss  Judith  began 
to  have  serious  doubts  of  patching  up  this  incip- 
ient quarrel.  However,  she  laughed  and  said  : 

"Well,  now  it's  all  a  mistake,  and  a  ridiculous 
one,  too,  from  beginning  to  end ;  but  let's  see  ; 
perhaps  we  can  straighten  it.  Have  you  ever 
said  any  thing  about  Doctor  Pilcher  lately  ?  Ever 
talked  with  any  one  about  his  skill  ? " 

"No;  Je-ru —  Hold  on,  Judith !  I  didn't  say 
any  thin' ;  yis,  I  have  !  "  cried  the  Deacon,  slap- 
ping one  big  hand  against  the  other  with  a  force 


BOBBY  JANE'S  MANAGEMENT.  117 

that  made  Miss  Judith  start  in  spite  of  herself; 
"  this  mornin',  to  Job  Titus.  But  I  didn't  say 
any  thin'  against  the  Doctor.  I  stood  up  for  him. 
Job  was  abusin'  of  him  right  an'  left.  You  know 
that  boy  of  his  —  that  Miles  ?  Never  was  strong, 
an'  couldn't  a  growed  up  any  way.  Well,  Titus 
has  alwus  talked  out  openly  about  the  Doctor; 
alwus." 

"  Where  were  you  ? "  asked  Miss  Judith 
quickly. 

"  Why,  on  the  turnpike.  He  was  a  goin'  off 
cross  lots  to  git  an  early  job  over  to  Potters- 
town,  an'  I  was  on  my  way  to  Loulsy's.  Ade- 
line sent  for  me,  you  know." 

Suddenly  there  flashed  through  Miss  Judith's 
mind  Bobby  Jane's  "  I  sat  down  in  some  bushes, 
while  some  horrid  old  men  talked."  "  I  have 
it !  "  she  said  quickly. 

"  Well,  ef  you  have,"  exclaimed  the  poor 
Deacon,  "  s'pose  you  jest  pass  it  along,  for  it 
beats  me  all  out  ;  it  does." 

"  The  child  probably  was  afraid  you  would  send 
her  back  home,"  said  Miss  Judith,  when  she 
had  been  over,  at  least  three  times,  her  supposi- 
tions as  to  how  it  all  happened.  "Don't  you 
see  ?  And  so  she  hid,  and  of  course  heard  the 


118  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

conversation  and  twisted  the  names  up.  That's 
the  whole  of  it.  Oh,  I'm  so  thankful !  " 

"I'll  go  straight  over  to  Franklin  this  after- 
noon," cried  the  Deacon  jubilantly,  smiles  of 
delight  bursting  out  all  over  his  honest  face, 
"  an'  tell  the  Doctor  all  about  it,  an'  hev'  a 
good  hearty  laugh  with  him." 

"  And  I'll  send  for  him  Monday  to  come  over 
and  see  Bobby  Jane,"  exclaimed  Miss  Judith, 
scarcely  less  pleased  than  her  good  friend ;  "  I 
would  to-morrow,  if  it  wasn't  Sunday,  and  let 
him  hear  her  tell  it.  That'll  make  it  all  straight, 
any  way,  Deacon  Badger;  and  then  how  we 
shall  all  laugh  over  this  ridiculous  affair  from 
beginning  to  end." 


WOESE  AND  WORSE  FOE  DEACON  BADGER.    119 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER. 

THE  choir  was  laboriously  singing  the  first 
hymn  as  Miss  Pettibone  walked  up  the 
broad  aisle  of  the  old  church  to  her  brother 
John's  seat. 

Her  little  charge  had  been  left  in  Miss  Scar- 
ritt's  care,  who  protested  solemnly  that  she  should 
"  stay  at  home  anyway  with  ma."  As  the  old 
lady  had  something  of  a  cold,  and  her  daughter 
never  felt  comfortable  at  leaving  her  under  such 
circumstances,  Miss  Judith  felt  justified  in  accept- 
ing the  little  dressmaker's  offer  to  have  an  eye 
to  Bobby  Jane. 

But  the  small  patient,  who  had  now  so  far  recov- 
ered as  to  arrive  at  an  extremely  cross  and  unrea- 
sonable state,  immediately,  at  sight  of  Miss 
Judith's  preparations  for  church,  set  up  the  most 
terrible  to-do,  declaring  that  "  Aunt  Judy  mustn't 
go ;  oh  no,  she  mustn't !  " 


120  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  That  decides  me ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Judith, 
going  to  the  closet  to  reach  down  her  big  band- 
box. "  When  children  are  able  to  tell  what  they 
will  have,  and  what  they  won't,  and  carry  on 
like  that,  it  won't  hurt  them  to  be  left  alone 
to  find  their  senses.  Good-by,  Bobby  Jane ;  now 
see  how  good  a  girl  you  can  be,  so  that  you'll  be 
glad  to  see  me  when  I  come  back." 

Bobby  Jane,  seeing  that  her  aunt  was  noways 
moved  by  her  tirade,  put  up  her  little  lips  to  be 
kissed,  exactly  as  well  pleased  as  though  Miss 
Judith  had  been  added  to  the  number  of  her 
slaves  to  do  ber  bidding. 

All  this,  of  course,  made  Miss  Pettibone  later 
than  usual  when  she  set  out  for  church ;  and 
going  as  rapidly  over  the  ground  as  possible,  as 
she  turned  into  the  village  Green  she  heard, 
which  didn't  tend  to  allay  her  annoyance,  the 
singing  that  always  preceded  Mr.  Whittaker's 
long  prayer.  Hurrying  up  the  steep  steps,  she 
came  suddenly  at  the  top  upon  Deacon  Badger, 
who,  with  a  long  face  and  dolorous  accents, 
began  nervously : 

"  I  went  over  to  Franklin,  Judith,  but  Doctor 
Pilcher  had  gone  off  on  his  rounds  somewhere, 
so  I  didn't  see  him.  I  declare  I  I  thought 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER.     121 

fust  I  couldn't  come  to  church  this  mornin' ;  I'm 
so  nervous,  I  can't  set  still. " 

The  poor  Deacon's  face  was  working  ner- 
vously, every  feature  twitching  with  excitement, 
while  his  little  eyes  peered  anxiously  into  Miss 
Judith's  for  the  least  grain  of  comfort. 

"  Oh  !  it  will  all  be  right, "  said  Miss  Judith 
cheerfully,  panting  a  little  from  her  hurried 
walk,  but  longing  to  bestow  that  comfort. 
"  Don't  you  worry,  Deacon  Badger ;  I'll  send 
for  him  to-morrow  to  see  Bobby  Jane,  and 
that  will  fix  it.  "  She  took  his  trembling  hand 
in  her  own  strong  palm  and  pressed  it  warmly. 
"  Cheer  up,  "  she  said,  smiling  up  into  his  wor- 
ried face.  "  It  can't  help  but  be  fixed  up,  for 
it's  too  ridiculous  to  merit  a  serious  thought. " 

Brother  John  made  a  great  squeaking  and 
bustling,  getting  up  to  let  her  into  the  big 
square  pew ;  and  Miss  Judith  felt  like  thank- 
ing the  Lord,  when,  at  last,  she  did  sink  into 
her  seat,  and  the  door  was  buttoned  tight. 

The  choir  rendered  the  last  note  and  sat  down 
delighted  with  its  efforts  ;  and  the  minister 
arose  slowly  from  the  hair-cloth  sofa  back  of 
the  high  pulpit,  and  stepped  forward  to  offer 
prayer.  Brother  John  took,  with  everybody  else, 


122  THE  PETT1BONE  NAME. 

a  good  look  at  the  stranger,  to  start  suddenly ; 
and  just  as  Miss  Judith's  head  was  going 
down  decorously,  he  gave  her  a  nudge,  saying 
close  to  her  ear,  "Why,  that's  the  fellow  you 
sent  after  me  !  " 

To  say  that  Miss  Judith  heard  the  whole  of 
that  prayer,  would  be  to  state  an  untruth. 
Hard  as  she  tried  to  compose  her  thoughts,  and 
sternly  as  she  took  herself  to  task  for  not  accom- 
plishing it,  the  closing  words  fell  upon  a  preoccupied 
mind.  At  last  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  sit 
up  and  bring  herself  to  face  the  keen,  search- 
ing glance  directed  from  the  pulpit  to  the  "Pet- 
tibone  pew.  " 

But  the  Reverend  Mr.  Beebe  after  that  first 
look  seemed  to  have  no  other  thoughts  than 
those  connected  with  his  work,  and  was  soon 
engrossed  in  reading  the  notices,  in  a  deep, 
strong  voice,  and  with  a  manner  perfectly  self- 
possessed,  but  free  from  any  unpleasant  assur- 
ance. 

"What  must  he  think  of  me!"  exclaimed 
Miss  Judith  to  herself  over  and  over.  Through- 
out the  sermon,  which,  though  not  approaching 
one  of  Parson  Whittaker's  in  length,  seemed  a 
perfect  age  in  reaching  its  conclusion,  the 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOB  DEACON  BADGER.     123 

reflections  that  took  possession  of  her  mind  in 
regard  to  the  small  niece  at  home,  were  any 
thing  but  pleasant. 

When  at  last  the  sermon  was  over,  she  started 
to  get  out  as  quickly  as  possible,  to  run  home 
for  the  intermission  till  her  duties  at  Sunday- 
school  towards  Miss  Frisbie's  class  would  require 
her  presence.  But  "  Brother  John  "  was  slow. 
He  couldn't  find  his  hat,  or  he  didn't  want  to, 
which  was  all  the  same,  and  before  the  find- 
ing and  the  getting  out  were  accomplished, 
Mrs.  Whittaker  had  pulled  one  end  of  Miss 
Judith's  shawl,  and  also  called  her  name  in  a 
clear  voice : 

"  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  Reverend  Mr. 
Beebe, "  she  said.  And  then  Miss  Judith  was 
shaking  hands  with  the  tall  man  possessing  the 
keen  eyes ;  and  then  John  turned  around  and 
was  introduced,  and  there  they  were  in  for  a 
good  talk. 

"  I've  met  him  before, "  said  John  sociably. 
"  He  thought  so  much  of  me,  he  came  bright 
and  early  yesterday  morning  to  see  me.  Hee- 
hee-hee ! " 

"I've  heard  about  that,"  said  Mrs.  Whittaker, 
laughing.  "When  I  got  home  from  your  house, 


124  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

Judith,  I  was  telling  about  Bobby  Jane,  and  then 
it  all  came  out.  " 

"I'm  glad  if  Mr.  Beebe  did  enjoy  it  then, " 
said  Miss  Judith  dryly. 

Not  a  trace  of  her  inward  vexation  appeared 
on  her  placid  face.  "  They  never'll  get  through 
laughing  if  I  show  it  now,  "  she  said,  with  an 
extra  effort  to  appear  unconcerned. 

The  tall  minister  shot  a  swift  glance  into  her 
face  that  seemed  to  read  her  through  and  through, 
while  a  queer  little  smile  tucked  itself  away 
under  his  heavy  beard. 

"  I  do  wish  he'd  turn  his  eyes  away,"  thought 
Miss  Judith,  so  thoroughly  uncomfortable  it  was 
all  she  could  do  to  keep  from  showing  it ;  "I 
do  dislike  such  sharp  folks." 

"  And  it  was  all  his  goodness  made  him  have 
the  pleasure, "  said  Mrs.  Whittaker  earnestly, 
"for  —  " 

"  I  know  it, "  exclaimed  Miss  Judith  with  sud- 
den compunction. 

She  hadn't  even  thanked  the  man.  That  was 
worse  than  all  the  rest. 

"  I  suppose  it's  not  too  late  to  tell  you  what 
a  service  it  was,"  she  said,  turning  to  the 
minister  from  Franklin,  with  remorse  in  her 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER.     125 

face.  "But  because  you  did  go,  Bobby  Jane 
is  really  well  now." 

"  I  don't  mean  that, "  cried  Mrs.  Whittaker, 
before  the  Reverend  Mr.  Beebe  could  say  a  word  ; 
"  but  I  meant,  if  he  hadn't  have  been  doing 
a  kind  act  at  the  time  you  called  him,  he  wouldn't 
have  been  there  to  be  called.  Yes,  I  shall  tell, 
Mr.  Beebe;  it  explains  why  you  were  running 
around  the  country  at  that  early  hour.  To  make 
a  long  story  short,  he  went  to  save  Mr.  Whittaker 
from  going  —  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  his  throat, 
you  know,  in  that  damp  morning  air  —  down 
to  Simons.  They  sent  for  Mr.  Whittaker 
between  three  and  four  o'clock :  thought  he 
was  dying.  He  has  those  turns  every  once  in 
a  little  while.  It's  a  fit  of  the  nerves,  I  think, 
and  Mr.  Beebe  insisted  on  running  down  to 
find  out  what  was  the  matter.  " 

"  Well,  he  didn't  die,  I  see,  "  said  John 
Pettibone  with  a  laugh.  "He  was  shoeing  horses 
livelier'n  ever  when  I  went  past  the  shop 
about  ten  o'clock." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  he  was  enjoying  a  great  plate  of 
ham  and  fried  eggs  when  I  arrived  there,  " 
said  Mr.  Beebe.  "  He  invited  me  to  partake, 
and  remarked  that  it  was  pleasant  being  out 


126  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

in  the  morning  air ;  he  wished  he  could  do  it, 
etc.,  etc.,  and  then  fell  to  on  his  ham  and 
eggs  again,  while  I  bowed  myself  out. " 

"  Well,  you  helped  Judith,  anyway, "  said 
Mrs.  Whittaker,  after  the  laugh  had  subsided. 
"  So  the  walk  was  by  no  means  wasted.  " 

"  It  was  by  no  means  wasted, "  repeated 
the  minister,  with  another  queer  look  of  amuse- 
ment in  her  direction,  that  made  Miss  Petti- 
bone  think  with  any  thing  but  love  on  the 
capers  of  her  small  niece. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you'll  take  Miss  Frisbie's 
class  ? "  said  Mrs.  Whittaker,  turning  to  Miss 
Judith. 

"  I  said  I  would,  and  I  will, "  replied  Miss 
Judith  quietly.  "  I  must  go  now,  and  see  how 
Bobby  Jane  is  getting  on.  I'll  be  back  in 
time  for  Sunday-school. " 

And  before  any  one  could  raise  a  protest, 
she  had  disappeared  out  of  the  old  church 
door. 

All  her  duties  as  regarded  her  class  being 
over,  Miss  Judith  settled  herself  with  more 
composure  to  listen  to  the  afternoon  discourse. 
And  thus  being  better  prepared  to  criticise, 
she  soon  found  herself  wondering  at,  then 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER.     127 

enjoying,  the  strong  Christian  food  that  was 
being  broken  to  the  congregation. 

"  He's  got  good  common  sense ;  that's  one 
thing,"  she  exclaimed  to  herself.  "  He  don't 
run  on  and  beat  all  around  the  bush  before 
he  gets  hold  of  an  idea." 

With  an  interest  that  could  be  felt  without 
putting  into  words,  the  people  went  out  of  the 
old  church  to  find  their  tongues,  when  a  safe 
distance  had  been  traversed. 

Miss  Judith  went  rapidly  along  the  path 
that  ran  crosswise  through  the  Green,  leading 
toward  Miss  Scarritt's  little  cottage. 

"  I  like  him,"  said  Mrs.  Folinsbee,  calling 
to  her  as  she  was  attempting  to  pass;  "don't 
you,  Miss  Pettibone  ?  Now  Mr.  Whittaker 
preaches  all  the  while  as  ef  his  throat  was 
a  goin'  to  break  down.  It's  awful  to  set  an' 
listen  to  him.  This  man  stands  up  an'  hollers 
fust-rate." 

"Mr.  Whittaker  is  one  of  the  best  preachers 
I  know,"  cried  Miss  Judith  in  her  warmest 
fashion.  "  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Folinsbee,  if  we 
live  up  to  his  preaching,  we'll  do  pretty  well." 

"  Oh  !  I  know ;  of  course,  of  course,"  said 
Mrs.  Folinsbee,  giving  her  shawl  an  extra 


128  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

twitch  or  two.  "But  there's  a  difference  in 
preachers,  you  know  yourself*.  Miss  Pettibone." 

"  As  there  is  in  people,"  Miss  Judith  wanted 
to  say.  But  she  was  accustomed  to  withhold- 
ing many  of  her  thoughts  from  expression,  so 
she  quietly  folded  her  lips. 

"  I  must  hurry  along,  Mrs.  Folinsbee,"  she 
said  quickly ;  "  my  little  niece  is  sick,  and  I 
am  anxious  to  get  back  to  her." 

"  Is  she  with  you  ? "  called  Mrs.  Folinsbee, 
eager  for  all  the  news.  "  What's  the  matter  ? 
Say,  Miss  Pettibone,  what's  the  matter?" 

But  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  Miss  Judith 
didn't  hear,  for  she  speedily  put  a  good  dis- 
tance between  the  curious  matron  and  herself, 
and  soon  disappeared  in  the  door  of  her  little 
home. 

The  next  morning  Bobby  Jane  was  up  and 
around,  as  Miss  Scarritt  had  expressed  it,  "  as 
peart  as  a  cricket ; "  and  with  a  huge  piece 
of  red  flannel  tied  around  her  throat,  was 
engaged  in  playing  with  a  lot  of  old-fashioned 
boxes,  part  of  the  household  treasures  brought 
from  the  old  homestead,  and  that  she  was 
always  allowed  to  take  and  enjoy  at  her  own 
sweet  will. 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER.     129 

"  I'll  send  over  now  for  Doctor  Pilcher,"  thought 
Miss  Judith,  getting  up  from  her  work  to  run 
down  for  one  of  the  neighbor's  children  who 
always  delighted  in  an  excuse  to  go  to  the 
store  with  a  message  for  Jonas  Hine,  the 
express  messenger  to  Franklin.  "Then  he'll 
come  over  by  afternoon,  probably,  an'  that  will 
be  about  right." 

"Ju-dith,"  called  old  Mrs.  Scarritt's  cracked 
voice  up  over  the  stairs. 

Miss  Judith  dropped  scissors  and  thimble  to 
run  briskly,  to  save  the  old  lady's  throat  from 
another  call. 

"Ju — "  began  the  old  lady.  "Oh!  here  you 
be.  It's  Mr.  Whittaker."  And  she  waddled 
back  to  the  kitchen,  to  see  if  the  beans  were 
burning. 

"Miss  Judith,"  said  the  minister,  "good- 
morning  !  What  is  this  about  Deacon  Badger 
and  Doctor  Pilcher?  I  understand  you  know 
something  about  the  trouble,  but  I  can't  quite 
get  at  the  rights  of  the  story,  and  I've  come 
to  you  to  be  set  straight." 

"Mercy!"  ejaculated  Miss  Judith;  "are  you 
drawn  into  it,  Mr.  Whittaker  ?  Do  you  mean 
to  say  Doctor  Pilcher  is  quite  so  foolish  as  to 


130  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

let  his  temper  run  away  with  all  his  sense  ? 
How  did  you  hear  of  it  ?  "  Her  strong  features 
were  filled  with  the  contempt  she  couldn't 
keep  down  at  the  thought  of  such  a  trivial 
matter  becoming  general  talk. 

"Why,  you  know  I  preached  over  there 
yesterday,"  said  Mr.  Whittaker.  "  Oh !  by  the 
way,  how  did  you  like  the  new  minister 
they've  got  ?  Did  he  give  you  good  doctrine  ? " 

"  Pretty  fair,"  said  Miss  Judith  indifferently. 
"  But  I  can't  stop  to  discuss  sermons  this 
morning,  Mr.  Whittaker ;  I'm  interested  in 
poor  Deacon  Badger.  It's  a  downright  shame 
for  him  to  be  so  tormented  ;  such  a  good 
man  as  he  is."  To  save  her,  she  couldn't 
recover  from  the  vexation  that  filled  her  soul 
at  thought  of  her  good  old  friend. 

"  Doctor  Pilcher  came  to  see  me  last  night," 
said  Mr.  Whittaker  soberly,  "and  he  was  very 
angry." 

"  How  much  trouble  that  man  makes ! "  ex- 
claimed Miss  Judith,  more  strongly  than  she 
usually  allowed  herself  to  speak ;  "  to  fasten  to 
our  good,  patient  Deacon  Badger  with  what 
anybody  with  half  an  eye  might  know  he 
never  said." 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER.     131 

"  Well,  when  a  man  is  angry  and  all  tired 
out  with  his  work  and  discouraged  at  great 
obstacles,  he  can't  see  with  half  an  eye,  Miss 
Judith,"  said  the  minister.  "  At  any  rate,  he 
doesn't.  And  that's  just  the  state  with  Doctor 
Pilcher.  He's  got  too  much  on  his  hands, 
being  the  only  physician  for  three  villages, 
besides  doing  a  vast  amount  of  work  outside. 
And  he's  overworked  every  twenty-four  hours 
of  his  life,  night  as  well  as  day ;  and  when 
his  temper  bursts  bounds — it's  his  great  fail- 
ing, you  know  —  why,  we  ought  to  be  very 
sorry  for  him,  and  try  to  help  him  shut  it  in  again." 

"  I  know,"  said  Miss  Judith  remorsefully, 
with  a  great  effort  compelling  other  irritating 
thoughts  into  submission ;  "  and  he  certainly 
thought  he  had  great  provocation,  only  he 
might  have  known  —  Well,  do  tell  me  what 
he  said?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"  Why  he  told  me  as  distinctly  as  he  could  for 
his  anger,  that  your  little  niece  Bobby  Jane 
whom  he  attended  here  Saturday,  said  that 
Deacon  Badger  said  that  he  killed  some  one ; 
and  that  the  child  screamed  and  cried  and 
took  on  dreadfully  ;  as  if  she  had  been  terribly 
prejudiced  in  some  way." 


132  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"So  she  did,"  exclaimed  Miss  Judith.  "And 
here's  the  whole  of  it." 

Then  she  proceeded  to  lay  before  her  minister 
the  story  from  beginning  to  end,  and  its  solution. 

"  Deacon  Badger  is  going  over  to  see  him 
again  to-day,  I  expect,"  said  Miss  Judith,  at 
the  conclusion. 

"Oh!  he  mustn't,"  cried  Mr.  Whittaker, 
starting  up  quickly,  "it  wouldn't  be  the  smallest 
use  in  the  world.  In  fact,  it  would  do  a  great 
deal  more  harm  than  good.  Doctor  Pilcher  is  in 
such  a  temper  that  the  explanation  had  much 
better  be  given  by  some  other  person." 

"  Well,  I  was  just  going  to  send  for  him  to 
see  Bobby  Jane,"  said  Miss  Judith.  "  If  he 
heard  her  himself  it  would  be  the  best  kind  of 
explanation." 

"  Better  not  ;  better  not,"  said  Mr.  Whitta- 
ker, with  a  wise  shake  of  his  head. 

"  Well,  how  would  you  make  the  explanation 
then  ? "  exclaimed  Miss  Judith  in  astonishment. 
"  Something  must  be  done  !  And  it  won't 
ever  do  to  let  the  grass  grow  under  our  feet 
in  the  doing  of  it,  either.  A  spunky  fit  like 
the  one  Doctor  Pilcher's  in  ought  to  be  treated 
pretty  soon." 


WORSE  AND  WOESE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER.     133 

"  If  he  were  in  my  parish  now,"  said  Mr. 
Whittaker  thoughtfully,  standing  hat  in  hand, 
"why,  that  would  be  different.  Miss  Judith,  his 
own  minister  is  the  one  to  undertake  it.  If 
you'll  be  willing  to  tell  Mr.  Beebe  the  whole 
story,  I  can  give  you  my  word,  this  awkward 
thing  will  be  adjusted  straight  for  all  parties. 
He's  going  right  back  to  Franklin  this  after- 
noon, you  know." 

Miss  Judith  hesitated  for  one  moment ;  but 
Deacon  Badger's  face  coming  up  before  her, 
she  said  : 

"  I  will.  You  can  bring  him  as  soon  as  you 
like,  for  something  must  be  done,"  she  repeated. 

"  Right  away,"  replied  Mr.  Whittaker,  with 
a  business  air,  receiving  the  ungracious  per- 
mission as  calmly  as  if  the  most  delightful 
welcome  had  been  extended. 

"  We'll  be  here  in  just  ten  minutes,  Miss 
Judith." 

"  Mrs.  Scarritt,"  said  Miss  Judith,  marching 
out  into  the  kitchen,  "  I  want  the  privilege 
of  putting  more  wood  in  the  keeping-room  stove. 
I  must  bring  Bobby  Jane  down,  and  I'm  afraid 
she'll  take  cold." 


134  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  Do  jest  as  you  like,  Judith,"  said  the  old 
lady;  "jest  as  you  like  about  every  thin';  I'm 
sure  I  don't  keer." 

"  Where  we  goin'  ? "  asked  Bobby  Jane, 
poking  her  stubby  head  out  of  the  nest  of 
shawls  with  which  she  was  enshrouded,  as 
her  aunt  carried  her  down  the  stairs. 

"  Down-stairs,"  replied  Miss  Judith  curtly. 
"  Keep  your  head  in,  Bobby  Jane,  under  that 
shawl,  or  dear  knows  when  you'll  get  well 
enough  to  go  home." 

"  It's  fine  down  here,"  croaked  Bobby  Jane 
when  laid  on  the  big  old  calico-covered  sofa  in 
the  keeping-room  ;  "  a  great  deal  nicer'n  'tis 
up  in  your  room,  aunt  Judy." 

"Keep  that  shawl  around  you,"  said  Miss  Judith 
decidedly,  with  no  taste  for  further  conversa- 
tion ;  "  now  don't  you  fling  it  back  under  any 
consideration,  Bobby  Jane." 

"  Oh !  I  don't  want  to  keep  on  that  old 
shawl,"  whined  Bobby  Jane,  giving  a  twist  all 
over  the  sofa,  and  screwing  up  her  face.  "It's 
most  awful,  dreadful  hot,  aunt  Judy.  Why, 
here  come  two  big  men  ! "  she  exclaimed, 
stopping  the  whine  suddenly,  and  forgetting 
shawl  and  every  thing  else  discomforting,  to 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER.     135 

sit  bolt  upright  and  stare  out  of  the  little 
window.  "  An'  they're  coming  right  straight 
in  here.  Oh,  my  !  " 

"Good-morning!"  said  the  tall  minister  from 
Franklin,  appearing  in  Mr.  Whittaker's  wake ; 
and  putting  out  his  hand  cordially,  he  waited 
for  Miss  Judith's  firm  one  to  be  extended. 
"  Why,  here  is  your  little  niece  !  " 

"Yes,"  croaked  Bobby  Jane  from  her  sofa 
out  of  her  nest  of  shawls ;  "  but  I've  only 
just  come  down,  an'  aunt  Judy's  dreadful  cross; 
she  is  !  " 

"  You've  been  very  sick,  haven't  you  ?  "  said 
the  minister  kindly,  and  sitting  down  by  the 
small  figure. 

Bobby  Jane  put  her  hand  to  the  huge  bundle 
of  red  flannel  at  her  throat.  "Not  much,"  she 
said  with  a  wheeze.  "  Aunt  Judy  gave  me  nice 
things  to  eat.  I  liked  it  —  only  I  never  saw 
her  cut  out  things.  When  are  you  goin'  to, 
aunt  Judy  ? "  she  asked  suddenly,  as  if  struck 
with  the  idea  for  the  first  time.  "  Say,  when 
are  you  going  to  cut  out  jackets  ?  Say  ? " 

"You  had  a  doctor,  didn't  you,  Bobby  Jane?" 
asked    Miss   Judith,    ignoring   the   question. 
At     this     Bobby    Jane's     expression     changed 


136  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

suddenly.  With  a  bound  she  sprang  from  the 
old  sofa,  and,  catching  her  foot  in  the  long 
end  of  the  shawl,  fell  at  Miss  Judith's  feet  in 
a  perfect  paroxysm  of  distress. 

"Don't,  dorit  let  him  come  again!"  she 
wheezed  and  croaked.  "  Oh,  don't  !  He  killed 
that  poor  little  boy." 

Aunt  Judith  exchanged  a  quick  glance  with 
both  of  the  gentlemen,  motioning  Mr.  Beebe 
away,  who  had  started  to  lift  the  child  up. 

"  There,  there,  Bobby  Jane,"  she  said  sooth- 
ingly, drawing  her  upon  her  lap  and  speaking  in 
reassuring  tones  ;  "  nothing  shall  hurt  you  ;  don't 
be  afraid.  There,  there,  child." 

"  He  stuffs  folks,"  cried  the  child,  wriggling 
to  get  within  the  shelter  of  Miss  Judith's  arms 
as  far  as  possible.  "  That  man  said  so ;  he  did. 
Oh,  dear,  dear  !  " 

"When  you  were  coming  over  to  see  me,  you 
mean  ? "  asked  Miss  Judith  in  clear,  distinct  tones, 
smoothing  the  little  stubby  head  with  gentle 
hand. 

"  Yes  ; "  wheezed  Bobby  Jane  with  dreadful 
wriggles  at  the  recollection.  "  Don't  let  him 
stuff  me,  aunt  Judy  ;  oh,  don't  !  " 

She  gave  a  shudder  and  grasped  Miss  Judith 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER.     137 

violently  around  the  neck,  to  the  ruin  of  her 
clean  collar. 

"  And  you  got  over  the  fence  when  you  heard 
them  coming  along  the  road,  didn't  you  ?  "  asked 
Miss  Judith  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  as  if  she 
had  been  told  a  dozen  times  or  so. 

"  No,"  said  Bobby  Jane  sitting  up  straight 
with  a  bounce  in  the  comfortable  lap,  "  I  tumbled  ; 
and  'twas  an  old  stone  wall ;  twasn't  a  fence 
at  all.  I  was  so  afraid,  aunt  Judy." 

"Afraid  they  would  send  you  home,  you 
mean  ? "  asked  Miss  Judith,  stroking  the  stubby 
head,  and  gazing  into  the  big  black  eyes  fixedly. 

"Yis,"  said  Bobby  Jane,  beginning  to  cough. 

"  And  Deacon  Badger  was  there,  going  on  along 
the  road  while  you  hid  in  the  bushes,  wasn't  he  ? " 
pursued  Miss  Judith,  not  letting  the  black  eyes 
wander  in  the  least. 

"  Yis,"  said  Bobby  Jane,  nodding  her  head 
decidedly ;  "  an'  the  other  man  said,  '  He  kills 
'em,  Deacon  Badger;'  yes  he  did,  aunt  Judy." 

"  Why,  you  said  that  Deacon  Badger  said 
that  Doctor  Pilcher  killed  some  one,"  said  Miss 
Judith,  still  holding  the  eyes  by  her  own  clear 
gaze. 

"  No,    I    didn't ! "    cried    Bobby   Jane,    contra- 


138  THE  PETTI  BONE  NAME. 

dieting  stoutly  and  shaking  her  head.  "'Twas 
the  other  man,  aunt  Judy.  Deacon  Badger 
said  '  Oh,  I  guess  not ! '  he  did.  I  heard  him 
myself !  " 

She  ended  up  by  as  much  of  a  scream  as 
she  could  compass,  which  precipitated  her  into 
such  a  hard  fit  of  coughing  that  Miss  Judith 
hastened  to  cut  short  the  interview  as  summa- 
rily as  possible. 

"Did  you  see  the  other  man,  Bobby  Jane?" 
she  asked  quickly,  when  the  child  had  regained 
her  breath  enough  to  converse.  "  Tell  aunt 
Judy  how  he  looked." 

"Dre-adful  big,"  said  Bobby  Jane,  trying  to 
raise  her  shawl-encumbered  hands  to  describe 
the  extreme  height  her  imagination  could  invent. 
"  Oh  dear !  I  can't  tell  with  this  on,  aunt 
Judy.  Do  take  it  off,"  she  whimpered,  pulling 
at  her  wraps  impatiently. 

"  I  know,  child,  the  shawl  is  heavy,  but  you 
mustn't  undo  it ;  you'll  catch  your  death  of 
cold.  He  was  very  tall,  was  he  ?  And  how  did 
he  look  ?  Could  you  see  his  face  plainly  ? " 
Aunt  Judith  uttered  these  questions  rapidly 
and  distinctly,  still  holding  the  restless  eyes 
with  a  steady  gaze. 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER.     139 

"  Yis,"  said  Bobby  Jane,  beginning  to  look 
very  indignant  at  the  remembrance ;  "  an'  he 
most  stomped  my  head  off,  aunt  Judy;  he  did, 
when  he  jumped  over  the  wall.  And  then  he 
went  clear  away  off  down  so."  She  thrust  out 
one  arm  as  far  as  she  could,  to  point  diago- 
nally to  the  further  corner  of  the  room,  thereby 
describing  Mr.  Titus' s  method  of  crossing  the 
field.  "  Oh  dear !  I  want  to  get  down ;  I 
do!" 

"But  how  did  he  look?"  repeated  aunt  Ju- 
dith, holding  her  firmly. 

"  Oh,  I  donno,"  said  Bobby  Jane,  with  a 
dreadful  wheeze,  and  stretching  her  legs  under 
the  old  shawl.  "  Do  lemme  go,  aunt  Judy ; 
I'm  so  tired  !  " 

"  In  just  one  moment,"  said  aunt  Judith 
decidedly ;  "  when  you  have  told  me,  and  not 
before." 

Bobby  Jane  took  one  long  breath,  then  as 
she  saw  no  signs  of  relenting  in  the  quiet 
face  above  her,  she  began  to  rattle  off  as  fast 
as  possible  every  thing  she  knew  or  ever  thought 
of  knowing.  "He  —  had  —  an  —  awful — great  — 
whiskers  —  clear — way  —  down  —  an'  —  an'  —  old 
—  cap  —  an'  —  ner  —  a  —  box  —  in  —  his  —  hand 


140  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

—  an'  —  an' — that's  —  all.  Now  may  I  go,  aunt 
Judy  ? "  she  brought  up  in  despair. 

"  That's  Titus,"  said  Miss  Judith,  over  the 
little  stubby  head  to  the  gentlemen,  as  she  slid 
the  big  shawl  and  its  contents  to  the  floor. 
"I  don't  think  the  child's  ever  seen  him  before 
in  her  life.  The  box  of  tools  alone  would  de- 
cide it." 

"  Won't  you  come  and  see  me,  little  girl  ? " 
said  the  minister  from  Franklin,  holding  out 
his  hand  with  a  smile. 

Bobby  Jane  looked  sharply  at  him  for  just 
a  moment,  then  stumbled  over  to  the  sofa. 

"I  like  little  girls,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "and 
some  one  else  does  too.  Can  you  guess  who  ? " 

"No,"  wheezed  the  child,  hanging  on  his 
words. 

"  Your  dear,  good  Doctor  Pilcher,"  said  the 
kind  voice,  while  the  keen  eyes  beamed  on  her. 

"  He  isn't  my  dear,  good  Doctor  Pilcher ! " 
she  cried  indignantly,  beginning  to  edge  off 
from  her  would-be  kind  friend,  while  her  face 
looked  frightened  at  once. 

"  Bobby  Jane ! "  The  minister  took  one  of 
the  fat  little  hands  in  his  broad  palm.  "Who 
cured  you  so  that  you  can  soon  go  home  to 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER.     141 

play    with     your    little    brothers    and    sisters  ? " 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  go  home  ? "  croaked 
Bobby  Jane  in  intense  alarm.  "  I'm  goin'  to 
stay  forever'n  ever  with  my  aunt  Judy ;  I 
am  ! " 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Beebe  quietly.  "But 
you  can't  be  any  comfort  to  your  aunt  if  you're 
sick  always." 

There  was  a  moment  of  dreadful  silence,  in 
which  Bobby  Jane  veered  completely  around. 

"  I  don't  want  to  stay  in  bed,"  she  said 
slowly ;  "  I'd  rather  take  med'cine,  an'  have 
Doctor  Pilcher. 

"That's  right,"  said  the  minister  approvingly, 
and  smiling  at  her. 

"  Have  you  got  any  little  girls  to  your 
house?"  she  croaked,  suddenly  changing  the 
subject. 

"  No,"  said  the  minister ;  "  I  haven't  any 
home  to  put  them  in,  Bobby  Jane. 

"  I'll  come  an'  see  you  sometime,"  wheezed 
the  child,  with  her  sweetest  smile,  that,  seen 
above  her  billows  of  red  flannel,  was  striking, 
to  say  the  least;  "me  an'  aunt  Judy." 

"  I  want  to  congratulate  you,  Miss  Petti- 
bone,"  said  Mr.  Beebe,  turning  to  her,  "  that 


142  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

this  troublesome  misunderstanding  is  all  unrav- 
elled. Now  your  mind  can  be  set  entirely  at 
rest  about  your  good  Deacon,  which  must  be 
such  a  comfort." 

"You  don't  know  any  thing  what  a  comfort 
it  is,"  exclaimed  Miss  Judith  cheerily.  "  And 
what  a  lesson  it's  taught  me  to  be  careful  of 
my  tongue.  Dear  me !  To  think  how  stories 
grow  out  of  nothing  !  " 

" '  How  great  a  matter,'  "  said  Reverend  Mr. 
Beebe  smiling,  "has  been  repeated  often  enough 
to  stay  some  of  the  mischief.  The  trouble  of 
it  is  it  stops  just  there  at  the  repetition,  and 
the  wagging  of  tongues  goes  on  uninterrupted." 

"  If  you  are  going  to  Franklin  this  after- 
noon, Hiram,"  observed  Mr.  Whittaker  com- 
posedly—  "  sorry  to  break  in — but  you  will  have 
to  move  pretty  quickly,  that's  all ;  for  I  think 
there's  a  storm  brewing." 

"  Which  means  good-afternoon,  and  the  wag- 
ging of  my  tongue  stopped,"  said  Reverend  Mr. 
Beebe,  getting  up  from  the  sofa  with  a  laugh. 

"Ain't  you  coming  any  more?"  asked  Bobby 
Jane,  squeezing  in  between  the  visitors  anx- 
iously. "  Uh-tchee !  uh-tchee  !  Do  come  some 
more ! " 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  FOR  DEACON  BADGER.      143 

"  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Beebe  with  a  bright  smile 
on  the  old  shawl  and  its  contents  ;  "  and  when- 
ever I  come  to  Barkhamsted,  I'll  be  sure  to 
see  you,  Bobby  Jane,  if  itrs  a  possible  thing." 


144  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
AUNT  JUDITH'S  WORK  WIDENS. 

THAT  evening  little  Miss  Scarritt  ran  up- 
stairs with  her  work-basket. 

"  Now  that  child  is  asleep,  an'  you  hain't 
got  none  of  the  rest  of  'em  a  trapesin'  round 
an'  upsettin'  your  things  till  you  don't  know 
which  end  your  head's  on,  I'm  a  goin'  to  set 
with  you  one  evenin'.  Judith  Pettibone,  I 
sh'd  think  you'd  be  crazy  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  can  stand  it  for  one  evening,"  said 
Miss  Judith  dryly. 

"H'm!  h'm!"  returned  the  little  dressmaker 
in  her  grimmest  way,  while  her  small  eyes 
gleamed  at  the  appreciation  of  the  joke;  "you 
did  git  the  best  of  me  there,  I'll  allow. 
Well,  jokin'  aside,  I'd  like  to  know  what  time 
you  ever  have  to  yourself !  There's  Tom  in 
an'  out  most  every  minute,  an'  evenin's  are 
as  good  as  spoilt ;  you  never  can  tell  when 


AUNT  JUDITH'S  WORK  WIDENS.  145 

he'll  bring  a  lot  o'  books  an'  set  an'  set  till 
nine  o'clock.  Why,  those  children  are  hangin' 
round  you  twice  as  much  as  if  you  lived  with 
'em  !  " 

"That's  what  I  expected,"  said  Miss  Judith 
quietly. 

"  Well,  you'll  age  all  of  a  suddint,"  said  the 
little  dressmaker,  setting  her  basket  with  a  clap 
on  the  table,  and  diving  for  the  scissors.  "  A 
woman  always  does  who's  had  so  much  care  as 
you  have.  It's  time  for  you  now  to  take  a 
little  ease  an'  rest  your  bones  if  you're  ever 
goin'  to." 

Miss  Judith  only  smiled  at  her,  knowing  that 
until  her  friend  had  freed  her  mind,  remonstrances 
were  useless. 

"  Let  Tom  git  his  own  lessons,"  said  Miss 
Scarritt,  stabbing  her  little  cushion  to  see  if  the 
point  of  her  needle  was  in  good  order.  "  That 
would  save  you  a  sight." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  help  him  much,"  said  Miss  Judith 
honestly ;  "  I  can't,  if  I  wanted  to.  Education 
was  a  different  thing,  you  know,  in  yours  and 
my  day,.  Samantha." 

"  Well,  if  you  can't  tell  him  how  every  thin* 
is  done  under  the  canopy,  and  all  the  ologies  an' 


146  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

isms  a  goin',"  retorted  Miss  Scarritt,  "  you  set 
him  a  thinkin'  on  things,  an'  that's  better  yit. 
Oh,  I  know,  'cause  he's  told  me  all  about  it  ; 
so  !  Well,  if  he  let  you  alone  a  minute  that 
would  be  somethin'." 

"  You've  forgotten  Miriam,"  said  Miss  Judith 
laughing.  "  She  comes  first  by  right." 

"  Oh,  Miriam's  well  enough,"  said  Miss  Scarritt, 
tying  a  knot  in  her  thread  ;  "  she  has  some  con- 
science about  it.  I  don't  complain  of  her." 

"  Well,  then,  you'll  be  pleased  to  think  she 
is  coming  here  to  stay  with  me  for  a  spell,"  said 
Miss  Judith,  having  all  she  could  do  to  refrain 
from  laughing  outright  at  the  expression  of  her 
friend's  face. 

"  Right  straight  along  ?  "  asked  Miss  Scarritt, 
leaving  her  work  poised  in  mid-air. 

"  Yes,  for  a  spell,"  repeated  Miss  Judith 
brightly,  "as  soon  as  Bobby  Jane  gets  home. 
She  wants  to  come,  and  her  father  and  mother 
think  it  will  be  good  for  her  to  have  a  change. 
She  is  so  self-sacrificing  among  those  children, 
that  there's  a  little  danger  she  may  miss  some 
of  her  youth  ;  and  so  she's  coming  to  her  old 
aunty  for  a  while." 

Miss    Scarritt  lowered  her  work   into   her    lap 


AUNT  JUDITITS  WORK  WIDENS.  147 

and  set  three  or  four  stitches  silently  ;  then  she 
opened  her  pursed-up  mouth.  "  What  a  dretful 
care,"  she  sighed,  veering  around  immediately, 
"to  take  a  sixteen-year-old  girl.  Mercy!  here 
comes  that  Tom." 

The  sound  of  a  boy  tumbling  up  the  stairs, 
two  at  a  time,  made  the  little  dressmaker 
jam  all  her  work  hastily  into  her  basket  and 
beat  an  unceremonious  retreat. 

"That's  good,"  said  Tom  approvingly  and  look- 
ing around  the  room.  "  Now  she's  gone,  here's 
for  a  fine  time  !  " 

"You  didn't  bring  your  books,"  said  Miss 
Judith  wonderingly.  "  What's  the  matter,  Tom  ?  " 

For  reason,  the  boy  kept  his  eyes  on  the  glow- 
ing brands  in  the  big  open  stove. 

Miss  Judith  didn't  press  the  question,  but  went 
on  with  her  work,  snipping  and  trimming. 

"Aunt  Judith,"  said  the  boy  at  last,  turning 
away  from  the  firelight  to  fix  his  dark  eyes  on 
her  face,  "  I'm  fifteen  years  old." 

"I  know  it,  Tom,"  she  said  with  a  smile  ;  "on 
the  twenty-first  of  last  March." 

"  Oughtn't  I  to  be  learning  very  fast  ?  "  he  said, 
speaking  with  repressed  eagerness.  "  It  won't 
be  long  now  before  I  shall  be  a  man." 


148  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

Miss  Judith  put  her  work  aside  with  steady 
hand.  Her  time  had  come. 

"Tom,"  she  said.  There  was  a  ring  in  her 
voice  that  the  boy  raised  his  head  to  hear.  "  I 
have  waited  for  you,  my  boy,  to  speak  on  this 
subject  first.  It  has  long  been  on  my  mind, 
but,  until  you  found  it  out  for  yourself,  my  mouth 
had  to  be  shut.  Could  you  bear  to  go  away  to 
school  ? " 

The  boy  closed  one  hand  tightly  over  the 
other. 

"  To  be  a  man,  aunt  Judith,  I  must  go  away 
some  time  or  other,  I  suppose." 

"  I  suppose  you  must,"  said  aunt  Judith  quietly. 

"  And  I  do  mean  to  be  a  man,"  said  Tom, 
in  a  moment  or  two.  "  Oh,  aunt  Judith,  I  really 
and  truly  do  !  " 

"  You  must  be ! "  said  aunt  Judith  with  deep 
feeling.  "  Tom,  your  grandfather  and  grandmother 
hoped  great  things  from  you,  the  oldest  boy. 
You  mustn't  disappoint  them,  for  they're  watch- 
ing you  from  Heaven.  And  as  you  go  in  your 
course  the  rest  of  the  children  will  be  pretty 
sure  to  follow.  See  that  you  lead  them  only 
where  a  Pettibone  should  go." 

Her  eyes   glowed   with    such    intense  feeling, 


AUNT  JUDITH' S   WORK  WIDENS.  149 

that,  for  his  life,  in  watching  her,  the  boy  could 
not  analyze  the  emotions  that  now  rushed  over 
him.  He  only  knew  that  it  seemed  to  him  as 
if  the  souls  of  those  gone  before  spoke  of  noble- 
ness of  aim  and  singleness  of  purpose  as  the 
one  leading  —  that  the  Master  gives  —  up  to  the 
perfect  light. 

"  And  so  you  must  go  to  school,"  said 
aunt  Judith  decisively,  after  a  pause,  "and  learn 
something,  so  that  you  can  do  good  work  in 
the  world,  Tom.  That's  settled.  Mr.  Whittaker 
thinks  so  himself;  that  he's  taught  you  all  that 
it  is  best  for  you  to  try  to  learn  from  him." 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?  "  asked  the  boy,  flashing  a 
keen  look  on  her. 

"  Yes,"  said  aunt  Judith,  "  he  did.  And  as 
soon  as  you  came  to  that  conclusion  yourself, 
I  was  to  tell  you  what  he  said.  Now,  then  — " 

"Will  father  let  me  go?"  asked  Tom  incredu- 
lously, but  ready  to  believe  any  thing  if  aunt 
Judith  said  so. 

"  Not  only  let  you,  my  boy,"  cried  aunt  Judith, 
no  longer  able  to  control  herself,  "  but  bid  you 
a  God-speed,  to  add  to  your  mother's  blessing. 
O,  Tom,  Tom ! "  Miss  Judith  rose  from  her 
chair,  and  began  to  pace  rapidly  up  and  down 


150  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

the  room,  to  conceal  the  working  of  her  face 
and  gain  time  to  summon  a  steady  voice. 

The  boy  followed  every  movement  with  a 
keen  glance.  Although  many  and  long  had  been 
the  talks  with  aunt  Judith  ever  since  he  was 
a  little  fellow,  he  had  never  seen  her  so  strangely 
moved,  nor  felt  the  yearning  tenderness  of  her 
nature  that  he  should  come  up  to  all  that  was 
high  and  noble  so  strongly  as  he  did  this 
night. 

"Don't  you  see,  my  boy,"  she  said  at  last, 
pausing  before  him  with  every  feature  aglow, 
"that  you  have  more  following  you  with  love 
and  blessing,  and  looking  forward  to  the  comfort 
and  the  pride  that  you  will  be  in  all  future 
years,  than  it  often  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  boy  to 
possess?  See  that  you  don't  disappoint  them!" 

"  I  never  will,  aunt  Judith,"  said  the  boy 
slowly. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  cried  with  shining  eyes. 
"  Now,  then,  just  give  me  your  attention.  I 
want  you  to  promise  me  two  things.  Here  is 
one :  that  you  will  hold  tight  to  the  Bible  under 
all  circumstances.  Take  it  as  it  says,  Tom,  with- 
out any  arguing  over  this  thing  and  that,  and 
twisting  of  texts.  Just  stick  as  close  to  those 


AUNT  JUDITH'S  WOBK  WIDENS.  151 

commands    and    promises   as   you    can   for    your 
life.     Promise  me  that !  " 

"  I  will,  aunt  Judith,"  he  said  with  grave  face, 
looking  up  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"  Now  the  other :  That  you  will,  every  night 
and  morning,  wherever  you  may  be,  even  if  folks 
see  you,  and  maybe  laugh  —  boys  will  ridicule, 
Tom,  and  mock,  when  they  haven't  the  sense  to 
see  and  care  for  the  right  —  that  you  will  get 
down  upon  your  knees  and  say  your  prayers  as 
a  Christian  should.  Promise  that  too  !  " 

Tom  hesitated,  a  flush  coming  over  his  brown 
face. 

"Can't  I  say  'em  sometimes  in  bed,  auntie? 
I'd  pray  just  the  same." 

"  In  bed !  "  repeated  Miss  Judith  scornfully. 
"  I  wouldn't  give  much  for  the  religion  that  has 
to  skulk  into  a  dark  hole  and  pull  the  coverlids 
over  it.  Pretty  soon  it's  sure  to  get  smothered 
so  that  there  are  no  prayers.  No ;  if  I  prayed, 
I'd  pray  like  a  man  !  " 

In  all  his  after  life  Tom  never  forgot  her 
look,  nor  how  little  and  mean  he  felt  as  he 
stood  there  before  her. 

"  I  will,  aunty ! "  he  cried,  his  whole  soul 
in  his  face.  "  Oh,  I  will !  I  didn't  really  mean 


152  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

to  be  ashamed  of    praying ;    honestly,  I    didn't." 

"I  know  you  didn't,  Tom,"  said  aunt  Judith, 
her  face  softening.  And  she  took  his  hand 
gently.  "  I  know  how  you  have  tried  to  live 
rightly,  and  do  your  whole  duty ;  but  there's 
just  the  danger,  and  I  want  to  warn  you  of  it. 
It's  a  vastly  different  thing  to  live  as  you  ought 
to  in  this  quiet  place,  with  every  one  to  help 
you  along,  from  trying  it  in  a  big  city,  thrown 
in  amongst  a  lot  of  boys,  come  from  a  hundred 
different  homes.  Then  yon'll  need  those  two 
promises  terribly." 

"And  I'll  keep  them,"  said  Tom,  "with  God's 
help." 

Two  days  later  Bobby  Jane,  amidst  many 
wails  and  piteous  pleadings  to  stay,  was  borne 
off  to  the  big  house  on  the  hill,  where,  in 
less  than  an  hour,  everybody  wished  her  back 
at  the  "  widow  Scarritt's "  a  thousand  times. 

She  had  scarcely  left  "aunt  Judy's"  door, 
when  little  Doctor  Pilcher  drove  up,  and  pre- 
cipitating himself  from  his  gig,  rushed  up  to 
the  house. 

"  Miss  Pettibone,"  he  said,  in  his  most 
abrupt  manner  as  she  met  him  in  the  hall, 
"  I  haven't  but  a  moment,  but  I  drove  around 


AUNT  JUDITH'S  WOEK  WIDENS.  153 

this  way  on  purpose  to  see  you."  He  peered 
up  into  her  face  sharply,  bestowing  a  long, 
keen  scrutiny.  "  That  man  that  our  Church 
has  settled "  (although  the  little  Doctor  rarely 
set  foot  in  the  sanctuary  and  cared  not  a  whit 
for  prayer-meetings  and  such  gatherings,  with 
pomposity  of  speech  and  manner  he  would 
always  mention  them  as  "our,"  thereby  laying 
himself  open  to  the  criticisms  of  all  other 
disbelievers  ;  for  which  he  cared  no  more  than 
a  scraggy  little  pine  tree  would  for  the  per- 
ambulations of  a  fly  along  its  weather-beaten 
trunk)  "well,  he  says  that  your  little  niece 
made  up  all  that  story  out  of  her  head  from 
something  that  miserable  Titus  has  said.  That 
may  be  so ;  but  I'd  rather  you  gave  me  your 
word  of  honor  about  it,  for  although  Mr.  what's- 
his-name  Beebe  seems  a  good  enough  sort  of 
fellow  —  being  a  minister  isn't  every  thing,  by  a 
long  shot,  and  a  body's  got  to  summer  and 
winter  them  as  well  as  other  folks." 

Miss  Judith's  face  fairly  beamed  at  the 
thought  of  the  happiness  to  come  to  the  good 
Deacon.  She  had  just  opened  her  mouth  to 
reply,  when  a  small  rustling  was  heard  back 
of  her,  and  a  deprecating  voice  struck  in : 


154  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  widow  Scarritt  humbly, 
"but  Deacon  Badger's  out  in  the  kitchen.  He 
didn't  know  Bobby  Jane  had  gone  home,  an' 
he  brung  her  over  some  sweetin's  to  bake,  an' 
Mis.  Badger's  sent  her  a  glass  o'  jell."  Then 
she  turned  her  trembling  cap-border  over 
toward  the  Doctor.  "Ain't  you  goin'  to  make 
up  with  him  ?  "  she  pleaded.  "  Remember,  he's 
one  of  the  Lord's  apinted,  an'  they  should  be 
let  to  say  more  than  other  folks." 

"But,  Mrs.  Scarritt,"  said  Miss  Judith  hastily, 
fot  the  first  time  in  her  life  wishing  the  little 
widow  miles  away,  "Deacon  Badger  didn't  say 
at  all  any  thing  of  this  story.  It  was  wholly 
Bobby  Jane's  mistake." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  the  little  widow,  cheer- 
fully, whose  evil  genius  had  tempted  her  from 
her  quiet  kitchen  ;  and  she  was  preparing  to 
state  her  complete  belief  in  the  Deacon,  root 
and  branch,  when  Doctor  Pilcher,  whose  face 
had  undergone  a  change  with  the  rapidity  of 
lightning,  broke  in  : 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  roared  ;  "  I'll 
see  for  myself." 

The  little  widow  took  one-  look  at  his  face, 
then  turned  to  trot  down  the  hall  into  her 


AUNT  JUDITH'S  WORK  WIDENS.  155 

refuge.  Doctor  Pilcher  started  to  follow  with 
an  angry,  determined  tread,  ejaculating  at  each 
step  : 

"  I  see  through  all  this !  I  see  through  it 
all  !  " 

"Doctor  Pilcher,"  implored  Miss  Pettibone, 
stopping  him  for  one  instant,  "  I'll  answer  your 
question.  It  will  satisfy  —  " 

"I  won't  trouble  you!  I  won't  trouble  you!" 
cried  the  little  man,  almost  beside  himself  with 
passion,  waving  her  off.  "  Perhaps  you  don't 
think  that  I  see  through  all  this,  but  I  do ; 
oh  yes,  I  do  !  " 

Thereupon  he  stalked  on,  overtaking,  the 
widow  Scarritt's  retreating  footsteps. 

That  lady,  being  unaccustomed  in  the  even 
tenor  of  her  daily  life  to  pursuit  of  any  kind, 
now  startled  by  the  angry  tread  and  gusty 
exclamations  behind  her,  did  just  the  worst 
thing  possible  for  all  parties. 

She  turned  into  the  kitchen  at  the  top 
of  her  speed,  and,  all  out  of  breath,  cried 
nervously  : 

"Oh   dear!     Don't    quarrel    in    my   house!" 

The  Deacon  started  to  his  feet,  and  stared 
blankly  at  her  and  his  angry  foe.  That  he, 


156  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

Deacon  Philemon  Badger,  a  pattern  of  propriety 
not  only  in  the  Church,  but  to  young  and  old 
alike  throughout  the  town,  should  be  accused  of 
quarreling,  was  the  last  thing  on  earth  that  could 
be  borne  with  equanimity.  At  the  mere  thought 
of  it  and  of  what  Doctor  Pilcher  must  have  said  to 
produce  such  an  impression  in  the  widow's  mind, 
his  righteous  indignation,  coupled  with  his  nervous 
fatigue  and  worry  over  the  whole  thing,  so  far 
overcame  him  that  the  usually  placid  expression 
of  his  countenance  immediately  changed  to  unmis- 
takable anger. 

"  Quarreling !  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  thin,  sharp 
little  voice  so  unlike  his  own  cheery  tones,  that 
the  widow  put  her  hand  to  her  head  in  sheer 
perplexity.  "  I'd  have  you  know,  Mis.  Scarritt, 
that  I  never  stoop  to  that." 

"  Oh,  of  course  not  ;  of  course  not  !  "  cried  little 
Doctor  Pilcher  in  most  exasperating  sarcasm,  and 
confronting  him  angrily.  "  But  then,  you  know, 
you  can  help  others  on,  who  don't  make  any  pre- 
tensions. That  is  more  appropriate  for  a  deacon." 
He  turned  an  insufferable  smile  of  calm  derision 
up  into  the  Deacon's  face. 

That  was  too  much,  when  about  the  best- 
known  of  all  his  characteristics  were  those  belong- 


AUNT  JUDITH* S  WORK  WIDENS.  157 

ing  to  the  office  of  peace-maker  and  promoter  of 
brotherly  love  and  unity  !  The  Deacon  essayed  to 
speak,  but  no  words  came. 

"  And  then  to  take  refuge  behind  a  lot  of  other 
folks,  especially  a  child  !  "  exclaimed  Doctor  Pilcher 
in  withering  scorn,  "with  a  trumped-up  story  and —  " 

"  Hold !  " 

The  Deacon's  voice  was  so  dreadful  now,  from 
the  very  fact  of  its  being  not  his  own,  although 
issuing  from  his  lips,  that  the  pugnacity  of  the 
little  Doctor  was  forced,  by  his  absolute  amazement, 
to  give  place  to  a  blank  stare  up  into  the  counte- 
nance above  him. 

It  was  something  indescribable  to  see  the 
Deacon  enraged.  His  very  spectacles  bristled 
with  indignation ;  and,  as  through  his  violent  con- 
tortions of  countenance  they  were  continually 
slipping  down  his  nose,  to  be  pushed  back  into 
position  by  his  impatient  hand,  the  effect  was 
ludicrous  in  the  extreme.  Nor  was  he  able  in  the 
least  to  stop  the  flood  of  his  indignation.  Accus- 
tomed for  years  to  control  himself  with  the  most 
rigid  discipline  ;  to  mortify  and  hold  under  all 
longings  to  retaliate,  when  the  gates  were 
opened,  the  good  Deacon  found  himself  at  the 
mercy  of  the  pent-up  power  within. 


158  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

It  was  a  positive  delight  to  him  for  the  first  few 
moments,  this  new  and  exhilarating  sensation  of 
saying  just  what  he  pleased.  And  he  exercised  it 
as  a  man  would  who  suddenly  comes  into  posses- 
sion of  an  hitherto  unused  power.  He  gave  the 
astonished  Doctor  Pilcher  in  those  few  moments 
every  atom  of  his  belief  in  regard  to  the  unhappy 
state  of  feeling  then  existing,  together  with  sev- 
eral other  beliefs  having  nothing  to  do  with  the 
question  at  all,  adding  a  variety  of  thoughts  and 
opinions  nowise  flattering  to  the  little  physician. 
Then  suddenly  stopped. 

"  Oh  !  what  have  I  said  ?  What  have  I  said  ?  " 
he  cried  in  a  flash  of  remorse.  And  sinking  into 
a  chair,  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  I  should  think  you  better  ask,"  said  Doctor 
Pilcher  exultantly,  as  he  realized  the  power  now  in 
his  hands.  "  If  it  wasn't  for  your  name  of  deacon, 
you'd  be  a  blackguard.  As  it  is,  you're  a  hypo- 
crite, if  that's  any  satisfaction  for  you  to  know." 
With  that,  he  flung  himself  triumphantly  out  of 
the  room,  and  fairly  tore  down  the  small  path  to 
the  gate. 

The  widow  Scarritt  was  engaged  in  the  active 
and  harmless  occupation  of  wringing  her  hands, 
when  Miss  Pettibone  came  swiftly  across  the 


AUNT  JUDITHS  WORK  WIDENS.  159 

keeping-room,  and  put  her  hand  on  the  bent  shoul- 
der of  Deacon  Badger. 

"Oh,  don't!"  he  begged,  shrinking  from  the 
kind  touch  and  any  hint  of  comfort  it  might 
bring.  "  Don't  speak  to  me  !  I've  been  false  to 
my  profession,  an'  dishonored  the  cause." 

"  Deacon  Badger,"  said  Miss  Judith  firmly,  and 
removing  the  hand  to  stroke  gently  his  bent 
head,  "a  cause  is  never  dishonored  by  true  re- 
pentance." 

"  There  ain't  any  forgiveness  for  me,"  he 
groaned,  his  head  sinking  yet  lower  between  his 
hands.  "I've  sinned  without  reason;  without 
reason." 

"How  could  you  say  it!"  cried  widow  Scar- 
ritt,  stopping  the  wringing  long  enough  to  launch 
these  reproachful  words.  "  Oh  dear,  dear,  dear," 
how  could  you !  Now  he  never'll  be  a  professor 
in  all  this  world  !  " 

Miss  Judith  shot  her  a  quick,  imperative 
glance  ;  but  the  hand-exercise  occupying  all  her 
attention,  the  glance  was  lost  utterly. 

"  I  know  it,"  exclaimed  Deacon  Badger  in 
muffled  tones,  whose  remorseful  accent  pierced 
Miss  Pettibone's  heart  through  and  through, 
"an"  I'm  the  means  of  it!" 


160  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  Deacon  Badger,"  said  Miss  Judith,  beginning 
again.  Then  she  broke  off,  and,  the  memory 
of  the  good  life  so  nearly  completing  its  course 
rushing  over  her  to  bring  other  memories  of 
what  he  had  been  to  her  father,  she  cried  ten- 
derly, "Oh,  don't  distrust  God  so!  He  wants  to 
comfort  you." 

The  bent  head  lifted  a  trifle,  and  the  trem- 
bling hands  went  slowly  down. 

"I  know  it."  Deacon  Badger  uttered  the 
words  in  changed  tone.  "  Judith,  you  are  a  good 
girl,"  he  added  brokenly.  "  God  bless  you  !  " 

Then  he  got  up  from  his  chair,  reached  his 
hat,  and  went  quietly  out. 

"Well,  I  never!"  ejaculated  widow  Scarritt, 
simultaneously  with  the  closing  of  the  door,  and 
dropping  the  poor  tired  hands  in  her  lap.  "  Should 
you  thought  he  could  a  done  it,  Judith  ?  I  never 
was  so  struck  of  a  heap  to  hear  him  go  on. 
An'  he  a  deacon !  Shotdd  you  thought  he 
could?" 

"Mrs.  Scarritt,"  said  Miss  Judith,  as  the  litcle 
widow  seemed  to  require  a  reply,  "  we  are  all 
of  us  liable  to  failure  in  the  same  way." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  be,"  said  the  old  lady  ; 
"  I  never  was  no  gret  with  my  tongue.  Well, 


AUNT  JUDITHS  WOEK  WIDENS.  161 

well,    I  never   was    so    struck     of    a   heap,"    she 
repeated. 

"  Did  Deacon  Badger  know  that  Doctor  Pilcher 
was  here  ? "  asked  Miss  Judith  suddenly,  with 
a  keen  glance. 

"  No,"  said  the  old  lady,  beginning  to  amble 
toward  the  kitchen;  "he  didn't  know  the  fust 
thing  about  it.  But  I  see  he  couldn't  set  many 
minnits,  an'  so  I  up  an'  flew  for  you.  Dear  me ! 
I  wish  S'manthy  was  home.  Where  you  goin', 
Judith?"  she  asked,  pausing. 

"  I  must  run  up  to  brother  John's,"  said  Miss 
Judith  briefly. 

"Well,  do  wait  an'  git  a  cup  o'  tea,"  said 
widow  Scarritt,  trotting  off  with  the  greatest  brisk- 
ness for  the  tea-pot.  "  I'm  a  goin'  to  have  one. 
Mercy  !  My  nerves  is  so  shook  that  I  donno's 
I'll  ever  git  'em  straight.  To  think  of  him 
a  talkin'  so,  an'  he  a  deacon !  " 

"  I  can't  stay,"  said  Miss  Judith  quickly,  and 
proceeding  to  the  door.  "  I  promised  them  I'd 
be  up  there  just  as  soon  as  I  possibly  could. 
You  know  Tom  goes  in  a  few  days,  and  there's 
nearly  everything  to  do." 

"You'll  kill  yourself  over  them  children,"  said 
the  old  lady  decidedly.  "Well,  well,  I  donno," 


162  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

she  added,  drawing  a  long,  nervous  sigh,  while 
Miss  Pettibone  rapidly  mounted  the  little  crooked 
stairs.  "I  donno  about  any  thin',  I've  been  so 
struck  of  a  heap.  It  beats  all  how  he  went  on, 
an'  he  a  deacon  too!" 


TOM  GOES  TO  SCHOOL.  163 


CHAPTER  IX. 

TOM    GOES  TO   SCHOOL WIDOW  SCARRITT    DEMANDS 

ATTENTION. 

THE  old  homestead  on  the  hill  was  now  in 
a  dreadful  bustle  such  as  often  comes  into 
a  house  when  the  oldest  boy  is  going  away  to 
school.  A  going  away  that  is  the  first  break 
in  the  quiet  family  life  that  never  again  re- 
sumes the  old  uninterrupted  flow.  And  through 
the  village  like  wildfire  the  news  ran,  arousing 
a  variety  of  comments  over  this  new  excitement 
set  going  "  up  at  the  Pettibones'." 

"  They  won't  have  a  cent  in  five  years  if  they 
go  on  like  this."  "  It's  enough  to  make  Ira 
Pettibone  rise  from  his  grave,"  and  so  forth 
and  so  on. 

And  Tom  went,  with  a  hearty  God-speed  from 
one  and  all,  into  his  new  life. 

"  Don't  look  at  the  pretty  girls  too  much, 
Tom,"  said  his  father  with  a  laugh,  to  conceal 


164  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

deeper  feeling.  "Some  one  will  run  away  with 
your  heart  before  you've  been  there  two  hours  ; 
see  if  she  doesn't." 

"No,  sir,  she  won't  either ! "  cried  Tom  stoutly. 
"  We've  got  a  great  deal  prettier  girls  in  Bark- 
ham  sted  than  any  other  place  in  the  world  ;  I 
know  we  have.  Lucy  Badger's  worth  a  dozen. 
All  the  boys  say  so." 

"  Hum  !  hum  !  'well,  you'll  do,"  said  his  father 
after  a  moment's  scrutiny  ;  "  I  guess  you'll  come 
home  all  right,  Tom." 

That  morning,  the  morning  of  Tom's  depart- 
ure, when  the  tears  of  the  children  had  been 
wiped  up  and  their  little  hearts  comforted  ;  when 
the  father  had  at  last  settled  himself  to  steady 
work,  trying  to  forget  his  boy  ;  when  the  little 
mother  and  Miriam  had  resumed  their  usual 
routine  of  engrossing  household  labor,  Miss 
Judith  tied  on  her  bonnet  and  went  down  the 
hill  to  Deacon  Badger's. 

She  had  snatched  the  time  out  of  the  past 
busy  days  as  often  as  possible  for  a  few  hurried 
words  to  the  kind  old  heart  that  now  she  longed 
more  than  anything  else  in  the  world  to  comfort. 
She  had  tried,  by  every  means  in  her  powery 


TOM  GOES  TO  SCHOOL.  166 

to  bring  about  the  reconciliation  that  now  seemed 
almost  hopeless.  But  all  in  vain.  The  Deacon 
was  willing  to  do  any  thing  —  to  make  humble 
public  confession  of,  and  atonement  for,  his 
hasty  words  —  but  the  angry  Doctor  would  not 
see  him. 

"  It's  of  no  use,  Judith,"  now  said  Deacon 
Badger  at  the  end  of  her  visit;  "I've  driven 
over  there  till  Pilgrim's  all  worn  out,  an' 
that  housekeeper  of  his  just  slams  the  door  in 
my  face  an'  says  the  Doctor  ain't  at  home. 
I  saw  him  once,  after  my  back  was  turned, 
come  out  an'  go  to  the  barn.  He  won't  see 
me,  an'  I  can't  undo  the  mischief.  No,  I 
have  sinned,  an'  I  must  bear  the  conse- 
quences." 

He  looked  so  very  pale  as  he  passed  his 
hand  wearily  across  his  forehead,  that  Miss 
Judith's  heart  almost  failed  her.  What  if  this 
trouble  should  be  the  last  thing  calculated  to 
break  down  this  old  man  who  had  struggled 
so  bravely  through  the  countless  trials  of  a 
long  life.  She  must  make  another  effort. 

"Well,  don't  be  troubled,"  she  said  quietly, 
and  summoning  a  smile  to  her  face.  "When 
one  is  ready  to  atone,  Deacon  Badger,  for  a 


166  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

wrong,  there  is  always  a  way  provided. 
Remember  that ;  always  a  way." 

"  Not  in  my  case,"  said  the  poor  Deacon. 
"No,  Judith,  I've  given  up  all  hope.  That 
the  Lord  has  forgiven  me,  I'm  very  grateful 
for ;  but  I  don't  expect  he's  goin'  to  put 
every  thin'  back  same's  'twas  before.  No,  I've 
sinned,  an'  I  must  bear  the  consequences.  It's 
all  right  —  only  —  Doctor  Pilcher — " 

She  had  to  leave  him  so  at  last  ;  and  the 
bright  smile  faded  from  her  lips  and  eyes  as 
she  passed  swiftly  down  the  village  street  on 
this  morning  to  her  own  little  home,  trying  to 
think  of  some  new  plan  to  work  comfort  for 
her  poor  friend. 

"  Mr.  Whittaker  now  must  appeal  to  Doctor 
Pilcher's  conscience ;  there  is  no  other  way," 
she  said  firmly  to  herself.  "  Every  word  that 
I  might  say  would  only  make  the  matter 
worse.  And  Doctor  Pilcher  has  a  conscience, 
if  it  can  only  be  heard  through  the  tempest 
of  passion  that  he  has  allowed  to  control  him. 
Well,  here  I  am  at  home !  I'll  just  run  in 
and  get  that  sack  pattern  for  Mrs.  Whittaker, 
as  long  as  I  am  going  down  there." 

She    turned    in    at    the   little   brown  gate  with 


TOM  GOES  TO  SCHOOL.  167 

a  feeling,  despite  her  anxiety  about  the  Deacon 
and  her  missing  Tom's  presence,  of  glad  rest- 
fulness  at  being  once  more  at  the  place  called 
"home." 

"  I  declare,"  she  said  with  a  low  laugh, 
sweet  and  merry  as  if  girlish  days  were  not 
so  very  far  behind,  after  all,  "an  old  maid's 
corner  isn't  the  worst  place  in  the  world ! " 
And  she  stood  on  the  old  flat  door-stone  a 
moment  before  going  in. 

The  soft  wind  played  gently  on  her  face, 
bringing  the  pungent,  refreshing  odors  of  a 
neighboring  pine  grove ;  the  sunlight  slanting 
through  the  tall  maples  rested  lovingly  on  the 
strong  outline,  and  lighted  up  the  dark  eyes 
and  hair.  Miss  Judith,  giving  herself  up  to 
the  influence  of  the  scene,  stood  dreamily 
allowing  her  gaze  to  rest  on  the  far-distant 
purple  hills,  whose  message  fell  with  strength- 
ful  tenderness  into  her  very  heart.  Suddenly 
a  slight  noise,  not  created  by  any  thing  in  the 
world  lying  without,  struck  her  ear.  She  paused 
from  her  pleasant  meditations  to  listen.  Again  ! 
this  time  making  itself  quite  plainly  to  be 
heard.  It  was  a  groan,  and  from  within  the 
house,  as  if  some  one  were  in  great  distress. 


168  THE  PETTIBONE  XAME. 

As  quickly  as  possible,  Miss  Judith  let  herself 
in  at  the  old-fashioned  door,  and,  following  the 
sound,  soon  came  to  the  little  back  passage, 
where,  at  the  head  of  the  cellar  stairs,  in  a 
heap  on  the  floor  just  as  she  had  fallen,  lay 
widow  Scarritt. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come !  "  exclaimed 
the  poor  little  old  lady ;  and  then,  seeing  no 
further  need  for  control  now  that  "  Judith " 
was  there,  the  widow  Scarritt  fainted  completely 
away. 

Miss  Pettibone  stepped  into  the  kitchen,  and 
seizing  the  dipper,  filled  it  with  water  which 
she  sprinkled  into  the  white,  withered  face, 
chafing  the  thin  little  hands  and  bathing  the 
cold  forehead  until  she  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  the  trembling  eyelids  unclose,  and  of 
hearing  the  weak  voice  that  proclaimed  the  old 
lady  slowly  coming  back  to  life  again. 

"Oh  dear,  dear!"  exclaimed  ,  widow  Scarritt 
querulously ;  "  how  could  I  a  fell !  How  could 
I !  An'  I  spilt  all  my  potatoes,  too ! "  She 
tried  at  that  thought  to  lift  her  head  for  an 
examination  into  the  state  of  the  burden  she 
had  been  carrying ;  but  a  twinge  of  pain  made 
her  sink  back  helplessly  again  with  a  groan  as 


TOM  GOES  TO  SCHOOL.  169 

much  worse  than  her  former  efforts  as  it  was 
possible  to  imagine. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Miss  Judith  soothingly ; 
"I'll  pick  them  up  for  you,"  as  her  eyes 
fell  on  the  various  specimens  of  that  necessary 
vegetable  that  now  seemed  to  be  all  over  the 
floor  and  racing  away  to  every  point  of  the 
compass,  the  pan  having  run  away  by  itself 
under  the  table.  "There,  there,  don't  think 
any  more  about  them !  How  long  have  you 
lain  here  ?  " 

"Most  two  hours,"  groaned  Mrs.  Scarritt. 
"  Oh !  my  back's  broke,  an'  my  hip,  an'  my 
head.  Oh  dear,  dear,  dear!  I'm  broke  all  over." 

"Oh,  I  guess  not,"  said  Miss  Judith  sooth- 
ingly. Then  she  caught  up  the  widow's  gray 
morning  shawl  hanging  over  the  calico-covered 
rocker.  "Now,  then,"  and  she  deftly  slipped 
it  under  the  poor  old  lady's  head,  "  that  makes 
it  a  little  better,  doesn't  it  ? " 

"  Not  a  mite, "  said  Mrs.  Scarritt,  twisting 
worse  than  before.  "  How  can  it,  when  I've 
lain  here  for  hours  an'  hours  ?  Oh  dear,  dear, 
dear!  what  shall  I  do?" 

"Tisn't  very  far  along  now  in  the  morning, 
Mrs.  Scarritt,  "  said  Miss  Judith  gently,  and 


170  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

trying  to  disengage  her  hand  from  the  ner- 
vous clasp  of  the  little  thin  one  clinging  to 
it. 

"  Yis,  'tis,  too ! "  contradicted  the  little  old 
lady.  "I've  lain  here  hours  an'  hours;  the  clock 
jest  struck  ten  when  I  started  for  the  cellar. 
That's  what  made  me  think  of  the  potatoes. 
Don't  I  know  ?  Oh  dear,  dear,  dear !  " 

Miss  Judith  glanced  through  the  doorway 
into  the  kitchen.  The  hands  of  the  old  cor- 
ner clock  told  the  story  of  quarter  past  ten. 

"  Now  will  you  let  me  go  for  a  few 
moments,  Mrs.  Scarritt  ?  "  she  said,  turning  back 
to  her,  and  smiling  reassuringly  into  the  fright- 
ened face  ;  "  I'll  be  back  very  soon.  " 

"Where  you  goin' ? "  asked  the  little  widow 
in  a  tremor.  "  Oh  !  don't  leave  me  alone,  Judy  ; 
I  can't  bear  it.  I've  lain  here  now  for  hours 
an'  hours,  an'  nobody  come.  Don't  leave  me 
alone !  "  And  she  clung  with  both  hands  wher- 
ever she  could  grasp  Miss  Pettibone  or  her 
garments. 

"  Only  to  get  some  of  the  neighbors, "  said 
Miss  Judith  soothingly,  "  to  help  lift  you,  Mrs. 
Scarritt ;  I'm  afraid  I  might  hurt  you  to  try  to 
do  it  alone. " 


TOM  GOES  TO  SCHOOL.  171 

"Of  course  you  might,  "  said  the  old  lady 
energetically  ;  "  I  sh'd  all  come  apart.  Oh !  you 
couldn't  do  it,  an'  I  wouldn't  let  you  try.  I 
want  Doctor  Pilcher,  that's  what  I  want,  for 
I'm  all  broke  to  pieces,  Judy ;  I  am  ! "  She 
put  up  her  poor  little  quivering  mouth  like  a 
terrified  child,  while  the  tears  rolled  down  the 
withered  cheeks. 

Miss  Judith  leaned  over,  and  dropped  a  ten- 
der kiss  pityingly  on  the  mouth.  "  I'll  go 
right  off  to  send  Samantha  to  you, "  she  said, 
starting  toward  the  door. 

"  An'  Doctor  Pilcher,  "  cried  Mrs.  Scarritt 
eagerly  after  her ;  "  be  sure  you  git  him  as 
quick's  you  can,  Judith ;  just  as  quick's  ever 
you  can,  "  she  pleaded. 

"  I  will  ;  "  promised  Miss  Judith. 
Fortunately  remembering  a  chance  word 
dropped  by  the  little  dressmaker  at  the  break- 
fast-table in  regard  to  her  destination  for  the 
day,  she  turned  her  steps  in  the  direction  of 
Mr.  Bassett's,  the  shoemaker's  house. 

In  the  small  patch  of  ground  called  by  Mrs. 
Bassett  out  of  courtesy,  "  the  flower-garding, " 
but  which  resembled  a  mixture  of  Sahara-like 
desert  and  a  straggling  thicket  of  weeds,  only 


172  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

brightened  by  the  attempt  to  live,  on  the  part 
of  a  few  unhappy  poppies  and  marigolds,  she 
discovered  the  bent  form  of  old  Mr.  Hine, 
Mrs.  Bassett's  father. 

On  her  sudden  appearance  within  the  ragged 
inclosure  the  old  man,  glad  of  any  interruption 
that  promised  a  moment's  respite,  straightened 
himself  up,  and  the  faint  glimmer  of  a  smile 
stole  over  his  tired  face. 

"How  d'ye   do?"  he    said  sociably. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Hine  ?  "  responded  Miss 
Pettibone  with  a  pitying  glance. 

"  Pleasant  weather,  "  ventured  the  old  man, 
leaning  on  his  hoe-handle. 

"Very,"  said  Miss  Judith.  Then  she  stopped 
just  an  instant.  "  I  wish  I  could  stay  and  talk 
with  you,  Mr.  Hine,  "  she  added  kindly,  "  but 
I'm  in  a  great  hurry.  Mrs.  Scarritt  has  fallen 
and  hurt  herself,  and  I've  come  for  Samantha.  " 

"  Sho !  now,  "  began  old  Mr.  Hine  in  tones 
of  the  deepest  condolence,  that  were  summa- 
rily interrupted  by  a  childish  voice  pitched  on 
the  highest  key  of  delighted  impatience  —  "  Ma ! 
ma !  Mis.  Scarritt's  dead,  an'  she  wants  Miss 
S'manthy ! "  as  Janey  Bassett  sprang  up  from 
some  inconceivable  hiding-place  back  of  Miss 


TOM  GOES  TO  SCHOOL.  173 

Pettibone  and  scuttled  into  the  kitchen  with  her 
news. 

Miss  Pettibone's  haste  only  carried  her  to 
the  door  in  time  to  meet  Miss  Scarritt  rush- 
ing out. 

"  Samantha,  don't  be  frightened,  "  cried  Miss 
Judith,  grasping  her  arm,  to  stay  her  wild 
flight. 

"  Let  me  go,  Judith  ! "  screamed  the  little 
dressmaker,  almost  wild  with  terror  and  twist- 
ing excitedly  underneath  the  firm  hand  ;  while 
Mrs.  Bassett  following  closely,  expostulated, 
asked  questions,  and  found  fault  generally, 
without  stopping  to  take  breath. 

"  You  ain't  a  goin'  to  leave  me  without  bastin' 
them  sleeves  in,  are  you  ?  "  she  cried,  pushing  in 
between  ;  "  I'll  run  down  an'  see  your  ma,  Miss 
S'manthy.  Miss  Pettibone's  got  scat." 

Just  here  old  Mr.  Hine  joined  himself  to  the 
group. 

"  Don't  keep  her,"  he  said  earnestly,  catching 
the  last  words ;  and  he  raised  his  trembling 
hand  in  warning  toward  his  daughter. 

"  Do  you  go  back  to  your  work,  pa,"  she 
commanded  angrily,  "  an'  leave  things  you  don't 
understand,  to  the  women  folks  who  do." 


174  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"Don't  keep  her,"  he  warned.  Yet  he  went 
back,  and  obediently  took  up  the  hoe  once  more 
with  a  sigh. 

Miss  Pettibone  hurrying  down  the  village  street 
again,  had  the  hand  of  the  little  dressmaker 
tightly  clasped  in  her  own  strong  palm,  while 
she  rapidly  made  her  acquainted  with  all  that 
would  meet  her  on  her  arrival  home.  And  by 
the  time  they  reached  the  corner  where  the  road 
ran  up  the  hill,  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
that  Miss  Scarritt  had  attained  a  reasonable 
degree  of  composure. 

"  I'll  get  brother  John  to  go  to  Franklin  as 
soon  as  possible  for  Doctor  Pilcher,"  said  Miss 
Judith.  "  Now,  Samantha,  remember,  don't  get 
frightened  ;  you  can  do  twice  as  much  for  your 
mother  if  you  only  keep  cool." 

Miss  Scarritt  only  flashed  her  a  look,  while  she 
started  off  wringing  her  hands  in  the  desperate 
effort  at  self-control. 

"Where's  John?"  asked  Miss  Judith,  entering 
the  sitting-room  of  the  old  homestead  to  find 
only  her  sister-in-law  within. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied 'Gusty,  who  was 
looking  over  some  of  Tom's  cast-off  clothes,  and 
crying  between  every  glance.  "Oh  yes,  I  do, 


TOM  GOES  TO  SCHOOL.  175 

too.  He  left  his  work  and  went  over  to  Box- 
ville  about  half  an  hour  ago  with  Mr.  Folinsbee. 
He  said  he  should  fly  crazy  if  he  didn't  go  some- 
wheres,  he  felt  so  bad  about  Tom.  What's  the 
matter,  Judith  ?  "  as  she  caught  sight  of  her  sister- 
in-law's  face. 

"  I  can't  stop  to  tell  you  now,"  said  Miss 
Judith  hastily.  "  I  wanted  him  to  do  an  errand  ; 
that's  all."  Then  she  shut  the  door  and  started 
down  the  hill  again. 

"  I  must  ask  the  first  boy  or  man  I  see,"  she 
said  to  herself,  hurrying  along. 

A  cloud  of  dust  in  the  distance  announced  the 
approach  of  some  one  in  an  old  top  buggy  coming 
at  a  lively  pace.  Miss  Judith  stepped  quickly 
into  the  tangled  underbrush  by  the  roadside,  to 
appeal  to  the  traveller's  sympathies. 

"  Will  you  ?  "  she  began  anxiously. 

"  Can  I  be  of  service  ? "  The  minister  from 
Franklin  put  his  head  out  at  this  question  while, 
despite  his  evident  pleasure  at  being  summoned, 
a  smile,  that,  to  save  him  he  could  not  wholly 
restrain,  played  under  his  thick  beard  at  sight  of 
her  astonished  face. 

"  No,  thank  you  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Pettibone, 
stepping  with  the  extremest  haste  out  of  a 


176  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

small  thicket  of  low  blackberry  bushes  that  had 
entwined  themselves  nicely  around  her  feet 
and  dress.  "I'll  —  I'll  try  and  find  some  other 
way.  Thank  you,  but  it's  no  matter, "  and 
she  essayed  to  pursue  her  journey. 

But  the  blackberry  bushes  had  a  nice  hold 
which  they  didn't  mean  to  give  up,  so  the 
more  they  were  shaken  by  a  hand  not  alto- 
gether gentle,  the  more  they  were  disinclined 
to  yield  this  advantage.  "  Let  me  assist  you," 
cried  the  minister,  dropping  the  reins  and 
preparing  to  spring  out. 

"Oh,  don't  trouble  yourself,"  cried  Miss  Pet- 
tibone  quickly.  "It's  soon  conquered,  I  think." 
Nevertheless  each  branch  sprang  neatly  into 
place  again  as  soon  as  an  energetic  twist  had 
carried  it  back  a  hopeful  distance,  making  her 
more  of  a  prisoner  than  ever. 

"  Blackberry  bushes  have  greater  persistency, 
I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Beebe,  now  by  her  side, 
"  than  any  thing  else  on  earth.  Certainly  it  is 
the  most  apt  illustration  that  appeals  to  our 
minds,  Miss  Pettibone,  at  the  present  mo- 
ment. Ah !  let  me  see ;  it  is  this  incorrigible 
fellow  here,  this  long  branch,  that  makes  all 
the  trouble.  There,  now  then,"  by  a  vigorous 


TOM  GOES  TO  SCHOOL.  177 

wrench  breaking  it  off,  "the  whole  world's 
your  prison.  In  other  words,  you  are  free. " 
He  smiled  on  her,  and  without  giving  her  a 
chance  to  speak,  asked  quickly,  "What  is  it 
you  need  —  some  errand?  I'm  going  right 
over  to  Franklin.  Any  thing  there  ? " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Pettibone  simply, 
and  looking  down  at  her  torn  dress  and  a 
few  scrags  of  her  shawl  fringe  left  as  memen- 
toes to  sway  on  the  tips  of  the  vanquished 
bushes.  "  Yes,  it  is  an  errand,"  she  added 
quickly,  "  for  Doctor  Pilcher ;  if  you  will  be 
good  enough  to  send  him  at  once  to  Mrs. 
Scarritt's." 

"  Any  of  the  children  come  to  harm  ? " 
asked  Mr.  Beebe.  "  I  know  it  isn't  Bobby 
Jane,  because  I've  just  set  her  down  at  the 
corner;  and  even  she  hasn't  had  time  to  break 
her  neck.  " 

"  Mrs.  Scarritt  has  fallen,"  explained  Miss 
Judith  hurriedly.  "  I  don't  know  how  —  I 
wasn't  at  home.  It's  impossible  to  tell  how 
much  she  is  hurt,  but  Doctor  Pilcher  ought  to 
see  her  at  once." 

"  I'll  send  him  right  over,"  exclaimed  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Beebe,  springing  back  into  his 


178  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

carriage.  "Don't  be  troubled,  Miss  Pettibone. 
Good-morning !  " 

Miss  Pettibone  walked  down  the  hill  with 
firm,  even  steps,  and  carried  her  head  with 
its  usual  stately  poise,  but  her  thoughts  were 
not  calming,  to  say  the  least. 

"  There  are  two  errands  I've  sent  that  man 
on!"  she  exclaimed,  "besides  not  being  able 
to  keep  out  of  a  blackberry  snarl  without  his 
help.  Judith  Pettibone,  you  better  go  home ! " 


THE  DEACON'S  AFFAIRS  WAX  WORSE.       179 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  DEACON'S  AFFAIRS  WAX  WORSE. 

AND  go  home  she  did,  with,  despite  her 
pity  for  the  poor  little  widow,  a  mind 
considerably  tossed  up  with  an  overwhelming 
vexation  that  would  assert  itself  above  every 
thing  else. 

Miss  Samantha  had  contrived  to  prop  her 
mother  up  against  a  big  rocking-chair,  where 
the  poor  little  old  lady  groaned  and  bewailed 
her  fate  in  heart-rending  tones,  nearly  driving 
her  daughter  to  distraction. 

"O  Judith!  what  shall  we  do?"  cried  the 
little  dressmaker  at  the  first  sight  of  her  tall 
friend.  "  Her  back's  broke,  an'  her  hip,  an' 
every  thin'  !  Is  Doctor  Pilcher  comin'  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Judith  concisely,  "  just  as 
soon  as  the  word  can  get  to  him.  Are  you 
in  much  pain,  Mrs.  Scarritt  ? "  she  asked,  her 
tone  changing  to  a  tender  one  of  pity,  as 


180  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

she   remorsefully   concentrated    her   attention  on 
the   poor   little  old   lady. 

"Oh  dear,  dear,  dear!  I  guess  I  be,"  cried 
the  widow,  in  great  distress.  "  Do  gimme  a 
cup  o'  tea,  an'  somethin'  to  eat.  I'm  most 
dead,  lyin'  here." 

Miss  Pettibone  looked  at  her  keenly,  and 
turned  to  meet  Miss  Samantha,  who,  flying 
into  the  kitchen  for  the  tea-pot,  now  met  her 
with  one  hand  encumbered  with  the  dishcloth, 
and  the  other  with  a  huge  frying-pan,  which, 
although  a  necessary  article  of  household  use, 
was  not  exactly  suited  to  the  present  condi- 
tion of  her  mother's  mind.  Flourishing  them 
briskly,  she  ran  up  to  the  little  widow. 

"Oh  dear,  dear,  dear!"  groaned  the  poor 
woman,  turning  her  eyes  up  to  her  daughter 
and  her  strange  burden,  "  what  shall  I  do  ? 
She's  gone  crazy ;  Judy,  do  take  them  things 
away  and  give  me  some  tea.  Oh  dear  me  — 
deary  me !  I've  broke  my  hip  and  S'manthy's 
gone  crazy.  What  shall  I  do?" 

"Don't  be  so  frightened,  Samantha,"  said 
Miss  Judith  to  her  little  friend,  rescuing  the 
frying-pan  and  dishcloth  from  the  wiry  hands. 
"I  don't  think  she's  much  hurt,"  she  whispered 


THE  DEACON'S  AFFAIRS  WAX  WORSE.       181 

in  Miss  Samantha's  ear.  "  Here,  I'll  carry 
these  things  back  and  get  your  tea,  Mrs. 
Scarritt,"  she  said  cheerily.  "  Then,  says  I, 
we'll  try  and  get  you  up  into  a  more  com- 
fortable position ;  perhaps  we  can  lift  you  to 
the  bed." 

/ 

"  No,  no,  no ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Scarritt  in 
great  alarm,  and  shrinking  into  as  small  a 
heap  as  possible,  while  Miss  Pettibone  hurried 
off  for  a  steaming  cup  of  her  favorite  bever- 
age. "  I  ain't  a  goin'  to  be  moved  till  the 
Doctor  comes,"  she  persisted.  "  Don't  you 
either  of  you  touch  me;  I'm  all  broke  to 
pieces." 

"We  will  carry  you  very  gently,"  said  Miss 
Judith,  coming  back  with  the  tea.  "  There, 
see  how  nice  this  is !  After  you  have  drank 
it  you  will  feel  better." 

"  The  tea's  well  enough,"  said  the  old  lady, 
taking  a  plentiful  swallow  as  Miss  Judith  held 
it  to  her  lips,  "  but  I  ain't  a  goin'  to  feel 
better,"  she  added  testily,  "till  the  Doctor 
comes."  Then  she  burst  into  a  flood  of  weak, 
repining  tears.  "  O  Judy !  what  shall  I  do  ? 
What  shall  I  do?" 

Miss    Samantha   came  running  back  from  the 


182  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

window  where  she  had  gone  to  watch  for  the 
first  rattle  of  the  Doctor's  gig  wheels. 

"Don't,  ma,"  she  began,  "oh,  don't!"  Then 
she  began  to  cry.  In  the  midst  of  it  all,  in 
came  a  crowd  of  neighbors,  and  sympathizing 
or  curious,  as  the  case  might  be,  village 
people,  headed  by  Mrs.  Bassett,  who,  finding 
that  she  was  unable  to  do  any  thing  further  to 
the  half-completed  dress  until  the  sleeves  were 
in,  decided  to  take  a  holiday.  Accordingly, 
being  exceedingly  industrious  in  the  matter  of 
spreading  the  news,  with  various  addenda 
wholly  her  own,  she  had  collected  quite  a 
crowd.  So  that  by  the  time  Doctor  Pilcher 
drove  up,  he  found  the  house  fairly  swarming 
with  anxious,  excited  women,  each  pushing 
their  particular  remedy  to  the  front  with  ad- 
mirable zeal. 

"The  first  thing,"  said  the  little  man  in  a 
loud  voice,  as  he  took  in  the  state  of  affairs, 
"  this  room  must  be  cleared." 

Miss  Judith  whispered  a  few  words  to  kind 
Mrs.  Parsons. 

"  I'll  see  to  it,"  she  whispered  back.  And 
then  the  word  went  around,  and  presently  by 
ones  and  twos  they  stole  out. 


THE  DEACON'S  AFFAIRS  WAX  WORSE.       183 

"  A  set  of  raving,  tearing  women !  "  exclaimed 
the  Doctor  irately,  and  opening  his  surgical 
case  in  a  savage  fashion.  "Now,  then,  ma'am, 
where  are  you  hurt  ? "  He  got  down  on  his 
knees  on  the  floor  before  the  small  heap  and 
felt  her  pulse. 

"  All  over,"  said  Mrs.  Scarritt  comprehensively, 
delighted  at  the  Doctor's  appearance.  "  My  back's 
broke,  an'  my  hip,  an' — " 

"  One  at  a  time's  enough,"  said  the  Doctor. 
And  then  he  laughed. 

At  sound  of  that  laugh  Miss  Scarritt  jumped 
like  a  corn-kernel  popping  before  a  bright  fire ; 
then  she  stiffened  up  her  wiry  little  figure  till 
a  ramrod  was  nothing  in  comparison,  and,  glaring 
at  him,  she  snapped  out  : 

"I  sh'd  think  you'd  laugh!" 

"  Hey  ?  "  said  Doctor  Pilcher,  turning  around 
on  her  diminutive  figure  two  very  astonished  blue 
eyes.  "  Oh  !  beg  pardon,  ma'am,  if  your  feelings 
are  hurt  ;  but  it's  the  best  thing  in  the  world 
for  her,  a  laugh  is."  He  nodded,  as  he  spoke, 
to  the  little  old  lady.  Then  he  burst  out  cheer- 
ily:  "Now,  then,  ma'am,  excuse  me  — " 

Before  she  could  remonstrate,  he  had  lifted 
her  up  and  borne  her  gently  and  swiftly  across 


184  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

through  the  kitchen  and  deposited  her  on  the 
big  square  bed  in  the  old  bedroom.  "  There  \ " 
he  exclaimed,  when  that  was  done  to  his  satis- 
faction ;  "  now,  we'll  see  where  the  trouble  is." 

In  five  minutes  Mrs.  Scarritt  was  sitting  up, 
with  a  big  bandage  wet  with  arnica  and  worm- 
wood around  her  ankle.  She  herself  was  enjoy- 
ing a  cup  of  fragrant  tea,  of  which  she  drew 
long  draughts  as  consolation  for  the  humiliating 
descent  into  a  commonplace  invalid.  The  Doctor 
was  buttoning  himself  into  his  linen  duster, 
preparatory  to  his  drive  home  over  the  hills. 

"  Only  a  sprained  ankle,"  he  said,  for  about 
the  twentieth  time.  "She  better  not  walk  on 
it  for  a  day  or  two;  then  she'll  be  all  right. 
Well,  good-day,  Mrs.  Scarritt  !  See  that  you 
don't  tumble  down  again." 

"  Doctor,"  said  the  little  old  lady,  swallowing 
the  last  drop  in  the  cup  and  looking  up  in 
his  face,  "  what  you  goin'  to  do  about  Deacon 
Badger  ?  " 

Miss  Judith,  who  was  on  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  started,  but  too  late  to  stop  matters. 

"What  do  you  say?"  cried  Doctor  Pilcher, 
fastening  his  eyes  angrily  on  the  old  lady's  face. 

"  Deacon  Badger,  I  said,"  repeated   Mrs.  Scar- 


THE  DEACON'S  AFFAIRS  WAX  WORSE.       185 

ritt  deprecatingly.  "  Don't  lay  it  up  against 
him.  He  shouldn't  a  talked  so ;  but  then,  he 
didn't  mean  it,  I  know.  Why,  he's  been  a  per- 
fessor's  long  as  I  have ;  an'  that's  forty  year 
come  next  December.  I  remember,  'cause  he 
an'  Betsey  Harris  joined  at  the  same  time,  an' 
folks  alwus  thought  he'd  marry  her,  but  he 
didn't,  an'  —  " 

"  I'll  have  no  more  interference  about  this 
matter !  "  cried  Doctor  Pilcher,  interrupting  her 
harangue.  "  Let  me  repeat :  No  more  from  a 
living  soul ! "  He  whirled  around  savagely  on 
the  other  occupants  of  the  room,  in  order  that 
there  should  be  no  mistake.  "  When  it  comes 
to  such  a  pass,  the  thing's  got  to  be  stopped." 

Miss  Samantha,  as  has  been  said  before,  being 
no  respecter  of  persons,  cared  as  much  for  this 
declaration  as  if  uttered  by  an  'angry  child.  And 
her  spirits  being  at  their  highest  notch,  by  the 
fortunate  termination  of  the  accident,  she  could 
do  nothing  better  than  to  indulge  in  a  good 
hearty  laugh. 

The  Doctor  grew  angrier  and  angrier  each 
moment,  seeing  which,  Miss  Samantha  either 
couldn't,  or  wouldn't  stop.  At  last,  at  such  time 
as  she  considered  it  appropriate  to  assume  so- 


186  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

briety  of  demeanor,  she  wiped  her  eyes  with  her 
little  brown  work  apron. 

"There!  I  feel  better  now,"  she  said.  "Turn 
about  is  fair  play,  an'  I've  had  my  laugh." 

"  There's  no  such  thing  in  this  world  as  fair 
play,"  cried  the  little  Doctor,  glaring  at  her 
angrily,  at  which  she  nearly  went  off  into  con- 
vulsions again.  "  I've  been  perfectly  abused 
through  this  whole  affair.  Now,  once  for  all,  I 
never'll  hear  another  word  about  it;  never!" 

Miss  Judith  folded  her  lips  tightly  together 
on  the  closing  of  the  door,  as  one  who  had  no 
occasion  for  words.  Going  out  immediately  after 
into  the  back  passage,  to  slip  up  to  her  own 
room,  she  ran  against  Mrs.  Bassett,  who,  with  a 
very  red  face,  suddenly  assumed  a  perpendicular. 

"Oh  —  er  —  I  was  thinkin'  I'd  jest  step  in 
an'  see  if  —  I  could  do  any  thin'  before  I  went 
home,"  she  stammered. 

"  Samantha  doesn't  need  help  now,"  said  Miss 
Judith  with  a  penetrating  gaze.  Had  she  heard 
any  thing  to  serve  as  a  nucleus  around  which  a 
good-sized  ball  of  gossip,  such  as  only  Mrs.  Bas- 
sett knew  how  to  roll,  could  be  formed  ? 

"  Then  I'll  run  home,"  said  the  shoemaker's 
wife  briskly,  and  stepping  off.  "  You  tell  S'man- 


THE  DEACON'S  AFFAIRS  WAX  WORSE.       187 

thy  that  I  would  a  helped.     Be  sure  now;  don't 
forgit ! " 

Doctor  Pilcher,  driving  home,  fumed  and 
grunted  away  to  himself  in  the  depths  of  his 
gig.  Somehow,  that  laugh  of  the  little  dress- 
maker's nettled  him  beyond  expression,  reveal- 
ing to  him  his  overmastering  temper  as  noth- 
ing else  could.  Every  revolution  of  the  wheels 
seemed  to  echo  it ;  every  hoof-beat  of  the  faith- 
ful old  horse  struck  its  scornful  ring  into  his 
very  heart. 

"  Pshaw !  why  do  I  mind  it !  "  at  last  he  said, 
with  a  savage  pull  of  his  hat  over  his  eyes. 
Still  it  rang  through  and  through  him.  Even 
the  trees  waved  it  back  to  him,  as  he  spun 
swiftly  along  the  highway.  "Just  like  a  woman," 
he  .muttered,  at  last  reaching  his  own  gate  to 
fling  the  reins  down  and  spring  out;  "they 
haven't  any  sense  to  know  who's  right  or  wrong. 
Well,  let  her  laugh,  if  she  wants  to  ;  neverthe- 
less it  will  be  one  long  day  before  Deacon  Bad- 
ger gets  over  it." 

And  in  truth  it  was  hard  for  Deacon  Badger 
about  these  days.  All  opportunity  for  any  inter- 


188  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

vention  seemed  now  gone.  Clearly,  according  to 
Miss  Judith's  view  of  it,  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done  but  to  wait  patiently  until  such  time 
as  Doctor  Pilcher  should  come  to  his  senses. 

Every  thing  else  swung  around  again  into  its 
proper  orbit,  to  run  on  smoothly.  Mrs.  Scarritt, 
finding  nothing  but  a  sprained  ankle  in  the  way 
of  her  recovery,  picked  up  courage,  and  was 
soon  pattering  from  kitchen  to  cellar,  from 
keeping-room  to  attic,  pursuing  her  domestic 
duties  as  placid  and  busy  as  ever. 

And  now  Miriam,  that  all  things  were  ready 
for  her,  left  the  old  homestead  on  the  hill  and 
came  down  to  the  small  room ;  came  to  make 
a  different  place  by  her  once  entering  it  as 
her  own.  After  she  had  slept  in  the  big  bed, 
the  stiff,  heavy  curtains  surrounding  it  took  on 
an  altogether  changed  shape  to  aunt  Judith's 
eyes,  every  fold  seeming  to  say,  "There  are 
new,  fresh  dreams  of  life  to  go  on  under  here." 
The  very  walls  appeared  to  feel  her  presence, 
and  blossomed  out  into  bits  of  mosses  and 
ferns  in  every  niche  and  cranny  wherever  there 
was  a  resting-place  for  them. 

"  My  sakes !  anybody'd  know  there  was  a  girl 
in  here  at  the  first  wink,"  exclaimed  the  little 


THE  DEACON'S  AFFAIRS  WAX  WORSE.       189 

dressmaker,  peering  in  in  great  satisfaction  ;  for, 
despite  her  objections,  Miss  Scarritt  had  thrown 
her  whole  enthusiasm  into  aunt  Judith's  prep- 
arations for  her  guest.  "  It's  good  to  have 
you  here,  Mirry,"  she  said  simply. 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  like  to  have  me  come, 
Miss  Samantha,"  said  Miriam,  laughing  and 
blushing  brightly. 

"No  more  I  didn't,"  said  Miss  Scarritt  hon- 
estly, "on  account  of  your  aunt.  But  I'm  glad 
you're  here  now ;  I  certainly  am,  Mirry ;  an' 
I  really  think  you'll  be  a  master  sight  o'  com- 
fort to  her.  In  the  end,  at  any  rate." 

"  I  mean  to  be,"  said  the  girl,  while  a  pink 
flush  rose  to  her  pretty  hair.  "But  no  one 
could  begin  to  pay  aunt  Judith  for  all  she's 
done  for  us  always,  if  they  tried." 

"  You  never  said  a  truer  word  in  your  life," 
said  Miss  Scarritt,  laying  her  hand  solemnly 
on  the  slight  shoulder.  "  Truer'n  you  know 
for,  too.  But  you  can  try  an'  begin  to  do 
something  and  may  the  Lord  make  it  a  great 
deal ! " 


190  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 


CHAPTER  XL 

MRS.  BASSETT  CONCLUDES  TO  HELP  THE  DEACON*S 
TROUBLE  ALONG. 

YOU  mark  my  words,"  said  Mrs.  Bassett, 
"there's  goin'  to  be  somethin'  worth 
while  over  at  Sewin'  S'ciety  to-night.  Twon't 
be  old  Mis.  Henderson  either,  talkin'  forever, 
as  she  did  last  meetin',  about  her  son  in  Ingy. 
Who  cares  whether  he's  in  Ingy  or  Austra- 
liasy." 

"Tain't  Australiasy,  ma,"  said  Janey,  tying 
up  her  hair  with  a  faded  pink  ribbon  before 
the  cracked  looking-glass  in  the  corner;  "it's 
Australia.  Teacher  told  us  about  it  last  week 
on  the  map." 

"Your  teacher  don't  know  every  thin'," 
retorted  Mrs.  Bassett,  who,  though  dreadfully 
proud  of  her  daughter's  book-learning,  couldn't 
brook  corrections,  especially  when  she  had 
company.  And  Mrs.  Folinsbee  sat  right  there 


MRS.  BASSETT  HELPS  HIS  TROUBLE  ALONG.    191 

in  the  old  kitchen,  drinking  in  every  word. 
"An'  it's  the  worst  thing  in  the  world  for 
children  to  correct  their  parents.  Things  has 
come  to  a  pretty  pass,  then." 

"You  correct  gran'pa,"  said  Janey  positively, 
and  making  a  second  bow  in  the  ribbon, 
"awful,  an'  sometimes  you — " 

"Stop!"  commanded  Mrs.  Bassett,  stamping 
her  foot  in  extreme  anger,  so  that  the  tin 
dishes  on  the  dresser  rattled  sympathetically, 
"this  blessed  minute,  or  you'll  git  a  correction 
such  as  you  won't  want  again.  An'  do  you 
go  out  an'  take  them  seams  to  that  sheet  an' 
overhand  'em  up.  Start,  as  quick  as  you  can 
step  now !  It  all  comes  from  lettin'  her  go 
to  the  deestrict  school,"  she  said  to  her  vis- 
itor, as  Janey,  not  daring  to  disobey,  went  out 
whimpering,  "an'  associatin'  with  everybody," 
she  added,  while  the  little  thin  mouth  before 
her  was  wrinkling  fearfully  in  its  attempts  to 
say  something  when  there  should  be  a  chance 
to  speak. 

"  What  is't  to  be  at  S'ciety  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Folinsbee  eagerly,  now  that  the  chance  had 
come,  and  thrusting  forward  her  sharp  face,  in 
which  two  black,  bead-like  eyes  glittered  expect- 


192  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

antly.  "Do  tell,  Mis.  Bassett,  if  it's  any 
thin'  partic'lar,  for  I  didn't  know  as  I  sh'd 
go  this  time.  I  ain't  feelin'  right  smart  this 
mornin'." 

"  Oh,  you  better  not  miss  it,  now  I  tell 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Bassett  decidedly,  knowing 
very  well  that  nothing  on  earth  would  keep 
her  neighbor  away;  "it'll  be  one  of  the 
biggest  meetin's  we've  had  in  one  spell,  an' 
no  wonder."  Here  she  laughed  exasperatingly, 
as  one  who  could  communicate  volumes  if  she 
only  chose. 

"What  is't?  What  is't  ? "  cried  Mrs.  Folins- 
bee  in  the  most  intense  excitement,  and  slip- 
ping to  the  edge  of  her  chair,  to  look  implor- 
ingly into  her  hostess'  face.  "It  b'longs  to  me, 
I'm  sure,  as  much  as  any  one,  if  it's  S'ciety 
news." 

"  You  must  go  an'  hear  it  same  as  other 
folks,"  said  the  shoemaker's  wife  coolly,  and 
going  to  the  pantry  for  her  cake-pans.  "Don't 
you  be  a  mite  afeared,  Mis.  Folinsbee ;  you'll 
hear  it  all  then.  Everybody's  talkin'  about  it." 
"  What  is't  about  ? "  cried  Mrs.  Folinsbee, 
unable  to  bear  the  strain  longer;  and,  getting 
up  from  her  chair,  she  went  over  to  the 


MRS.  BA SSETT  HELPS  HIS  TROUBLE  ALONG.    193 

baking-table  to  wedge  her  question  in  between 
the  dumping  of  each  spoonful  of  cake-mixture 
into  its  respective  pan. 

"  Well,  I  donno  but  what  I'll  tell  you  just 
the  name,"  said  Mrs.  Bassett  thoughtfully, 
resting  her  long  spoon  on  the  edge  of  the 
cake-bowl ;  "  then  you  can  be  thinkin'  it  out, 
an'  twon't  hurt  your  enjoyment  more  when 
you  come  to  hear  the  story." 

"Yes,  yes;  who  is't  ? "  cried  Mrs.  Folinsbee, 
pressing  as  near  as  possible  to  the  holder  of 
the  spoon,  so  as  not  to  lose  a  syllable. 

"  Take  care,  Mis.  Folinsbee,"  said  Mrs.  Bassett 
warningly ;  "  don't  come  too  clus,  you  might  git 
some  on  your  gown." 

Mrs.  Folinsbee  brushed  her  old  green  morning 
wrapper  impatiently,  only  half  comprehending  the 
sarcastic  allusion  to  its  state,  that  a  few  little 
grease  spots,  more  or  less,  could  not  harm. 
"  It's  no  time  to  think  of  gowns,"  she  exclaimed 
quickly,  "  when  any  evil  is  abroad  in  our  Church. 
Now,  who  is't  ?  You  said  you'd  tell." 

Mrs.  Bassett  gave  her  one  impressive  look, 
then  laid  down  the  cake-spoon,  leaned  over,  and 
let  fall  two  words  into  the  small  wrinkled  ear. 

"  Deacon  Badger  !  " 


194  THE  PETTIEONE  NAME. 

"  Oh,  my  senses-ation  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Folins- 
bee,  breaking  away  as  if  shot.  Then,  not  being 
able  to  recover  herself,  she  sat  down  on  the  first 
thing  presented  to  her,  which  proved  to  be  a 
bandbox  enclosing  her  hostess'  Sunday  bonnet 
reposing  in  a  low  chair  till  such  time  as  its  owner 
could  get  from  her  baking  to  alter  the  bow  in 
the  back. 

"  Look  out,  Mis.  Folinsbee  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Bas- 
sett,  throwing  down  her  spoon,  and  also  starting 
forward.  But  too  late.  The  bandbox  and  its 
contents  had  received  its  quietus,  and  bore  un- 
complainingly the  palpitating  form  of  the  sur- 
prised matron. 

"I  sh'd  think  you  might  look  where  you're 
goin',"  exclaimed  the  vexed  Mrs.  Bassett,  hurry- 
ing to  the  spot.  "  Do  git  up  !  "  she  cried,  laying 
hold  of  the  green  wrapper.  "  I  'xpect  twon't  be 
fit  to  be  seen,  leastways  to  go  on  my  head.  Do 
git  up  !  " 

"  Deacon  Badger !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Folinsbee, 
quivering  on  top  of  the  bandbox,  and  holding 
up  both  hands.  "  I  never  heard  such  a  thing 
in  all  my  born  days.  Why,  I  thought  he  was  the 
salt  of  the  earth.  Deacon  Badger !  I  am  so 
surprised." 


MRS.  BASSETT  HELPS  HIS  TROUBLE  ALONG.    195 

"  Well,  s'pose  you  be,"  cried  Mrs.  Bassett, 
dragging  at  her  sleeve  and  bestowing  several 
pokes  in  the  region  of  the  ribs,  to  enforce  atten- 
tion ;  "  is  that  any  reason  you  sh'd  go  'round  settin' 
on  folks'  bonnets  an'  smashin'  'em  in,  an'  — " 

"  Bonnets  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Folinsbee  in  still 
greater  surprise,  and  skipping  up  so  quickly  she 
nearly  overthrew  her  irate  hostess.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?  I  ain't  seen  no  bonnets,"  she  added  in 
a  bewildered  way. 

"Well,  you've  sat  on  'em  if  you  ain't,"  re- 
torted Mrs.  Bassett,  tugging  anxiously  at  the 
cover  of  the  box  to  discover  damages. 

"  There  !  just  see  there,  Mis.  Folinsbee,  what 
you've  gone  an'  done ! "  as  she  dragged  the 
bonnet  out;  "not  a  versal  time  can  I  wear  that 
thing  again.  See  there  !  " 

She  held  up  at  arms-length  a  gray  silk  bonnet 
with  a  bit  of  feather  at  top  and  a  long  gray  satin 
bow  hanging  down  at  the  back.  The  feather 
had  been  broken  short  off  in  the  middle,  its 
remnant  pointing  skyward  in  the  most  grotesque 
fashion,  as  if  to  counsel  the  renouncing  of  all 
earthly  pomps  and  vanities,  while  the  meeting 
side  of  the  hat  presented  a  decidedly  concave 
appearance. 


196  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

Mrs.  Folinsbee  was  unable  to  speak,  but  stood- 
a  picture  of  astonishment,  her  eyes  fastened  on 
the  luckless  head-gear. 

"  I  was  goin'  to  alter  that  bow,"  said  Mrs. 
Bassett  in  the  accents  of  despair,  "  as  soon  as 
I  got  my  cake  in  the  oven.  But  I  don't  see  as 
there's  any  use  now.  All  the  bows  in  creation 
wouldn't  make  the  end  of  that  feather  grow 
on  again,  or  that  jam  come  straight  ;  an'  besides, 

9 

the  silk's  all  creased  up." 

Mrs.  Folinsbee  still  stared.  At  last  she  said, 
"  Did  I  do  that  ?  "  pointing  to  it  with  trembling 
ringer. 

"  Of  course  you  did,"  cried  the  shoemaker's 
wife  smartly ;  "  you  sat  right  straight  on  it ;  an' 
look  at  it  now,  just  as  flat  as  a  pancake ! " 
She  waved  the  poor  old  bonnet  before  the  bird- 
like  eyes,  each  wave  increasing  her  irritation. 

"You  can  smooth  it  out  again,"  said  Mrs. 
Folinsbee,  essaying  to  take  it.  "  Here,  let  me  try !  " 

"No,  you  can't  either,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bassett 
decidedly,  and  edging  off  from  the  long  fingers. 
"  Nothin'  will  ever  bring  that  straight  again. 
An'  besides,  where's  the  feather  ?  " 

"  I've  got  a  feather,  or  at  least  Mirandy  has," 
replied  Mrs.  Folinsbee,  seeing  a  way  out  of  the 


MRS.  BASSETT  HELPS  HIS  TROUBLE  ALONG.    197 

difficulty,  "  an'  I'll  give  you  that.  That'll  make 
it  right,  I  guess,  Mis.  Bassett,"  she  added  ani- 
matedly. 

"  I  don't  want  your  old  feathers,"  Mrs.  Bassett 
was  going  to  say,  but  respect  for  her  rich  neigh- 
bor helped  her  to  hold  her  tongue.  At  the 
same  time  she  was  rapidly  going  over  in  her 
mind  how  much  she  could  extort  from  the  closely- 
drawn  purse  of  that  same  neighbor. 

"You  know,  Mis.  Folinsbee,"  she  said  decid- 
edly, and  looking  her  visitor  fixedly  in  the  eye, 
"  that  I  couldn't  wear  other  folks'  feathers  an' 
ribbins  on  my  bonnet.  Mr.  Bassett  wouldn't 
let  me.  Everybody'd  say  they  was  give  to  me. 
I  must  buy  some." 

"  There  won't  no  one  know  these,"  said  Mrs. 
Folinsbee,  twisting  and  rubbing  her  hands 
together  in  a  fidgety  way,  "for  they  ain't  ben 
out  of  their  box,  I  guess,  these  ten  year.  You 
know  Mirandy's  had  on  black  for  her  husband's 
father,  an'  then  aunt  Susan  died,  an'  John's  wife, 
an'  —  " 

"Yes,  yes;  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Bassett  impa- 
tiently, stopping  the  recital  of  Miranda's  afflictions  ; 
"  but  that  makes  it  all  the  worse.  It  ain't  such 
a  feather  as  I'd  want,  then,  put  by  so  long." 


198  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  I'll  run  right  over  an'  git  it,"  said  Mrs.  Fol- 
insbee  eagerly,  "  an'  then  you  can  see  for  yourself. 
It's  as  nice  as  'twas  the  day  she  put  it  away." 
And  she  started  for  the  door. 

"  It  ain't  no  manner  o'  use,"  declared  the  shoe- 
maker's wife  in  her  most  decided  way,  and  laying 
the  bonnet  back  in  its  unfortunate  resting-place. 
"  I  must  have  what  will  satisfy  me,  or  nothin'  at 
all.  An'  I  guess  you  wouldn't  quite  like  to  refuse 
me  that,  Mis.  Folinsbee,  after  spoilin'  what 
belongs  to  me."  She  gave  her  an  extremely 
keen  and  cunning  look,  that  made  her  poor  vis- 
itor shiver  as  if  her  money-bags  already  lay  under 
the  powerful  grasp  of  a  relentless  hand. 

"  Well,  what  will  satisfy  you  ?  "  she  burst  out 
in  a  thin,  distressed  key.  "  Say !  for  mercy's 
sake,  tell  now,  an'  be  done  with  it !  " 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  five  dollars  would  do,"  said 
Mrs.  Bassett  thoughtfully  and  considerately,  as 
if  making  great  concessions. 

"  Five  dollars  !  "  Mrs.  Folinsbee  rolled  her  small 
eyes  to  the  dingy  ceiling,  unable  to  find  any 
words  to  do  justice  to  the  occasion.  Finding 
no  comfort  there,  she  brought  them  down  again, 
to  fix  her  gaze  on  the  plotter  against  her  peaceful 
possessions,  who  stood  calmly  waiting.  "  You've 


MRS.  BASSETT  HELPS  HIS  TROUBLE  ALONG.    199 

worn  that  bonnet  year  after  year,"  she  burst  out 
at  last,  finding  Mrs.  Bassett  still  silent,  "  an' 
everybody  knows  what  a  fright  it's  been ;  an'  now 
.  you  ask  me  for  five  dollars  to  pay  for  it !  It  wa'nt 
worth  a  dollar.  It  ain't  right,  Mis.  Bassett ;  it  ain't 
doin'  as  you'd  be  done  by."  She  stopped  and 
looked  anxiously  for  a  faint  gleam  of  mercy. 

"  What  everybody  thinks  of  my  bonnet  ain't 
the  question,"  observed  the  shoemaker's  wife 
composedly.  "  It's  what  it's  worth  to  me.  An' 
five  dollars  is  just  as  low  as  I  can  say  on 
my  conscience  that  I  could  get  somethin'  to 
put  on  to  my  head  to  go  to  Church  with.  An' 
as  for  doin'  as  you'd  be  done  by,  Mis.  Folins- 
bee,  I  don't  think  I  sh'd  want  to  set  down 
on  folks'  best  things  an'  spile  'em,  an'  then 
refuse  to  pay  what  would  replace  'em.  / 
shouldn't  want  to."  She  gave  a  virtuous  sigh 
that  had  whole  moral  essays  in  it,  covering 
one's  duties  to  one's  neighbor,  and  then 
waited  for  her  visitor  to  speak. 

"  Won't  you  take  no  less  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Folinsbee,  holding  on  grimly  to  the  least  shred 
of  hope. 

"Not  a  cent!"  declared  the  shoemaker's 
wife  positively.  "  I  ain't  doin'  my  duty  now  to 


200  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

Mr.  Bassett  to  set  such  a  low  price  on  the 
bonnet ;  but  it's  because  you're  such  a  good 
neighbor,  Mis.  Folinsbee,  that  I'm  willin'  to 
make  it  easy  for  you." 

The  indignant  Mrs.  Folinsbee  waited  to  hear 
no  more,  but  snapping  out,  "  You  can  git 
what  you  want  down  to  the  store  —  five  dollars 
wuth,"  she  hurried  across  the  kitchen  to  the 
door,  and  lifted  the  latch  with  no  very  gentle 
hand. 

"  Well,  you'll  be  at  S'ciety,  won't  you  ? " 
called  out  Mrs.  Bassett  pleasantly ;  "  be  sure 
now  !  I  wouldn't  have  you  miss  it  for  any  thin'." 

There  was  no  response.  All  the  scandal  in 
the  world  was  nothing  in  comparison,  in  Mrs. 
Folinsbee' s  mind,  to  the  welfare  of  the  family 
money-bags.  She  passed  out  of  the  dingy 
kitchen  silently  and  went  home  with  a  world 
of  trouble  tugging  at  her  heart-strings. 

"The  best  morning's  work,"  said  Mrs.  Bas- 
sett joyfully  to  herself,  as  soon  as  she  was 
sure  she  was  left  alone.  "  Takes  me  to  do 
things  !  Now  if  anybody'd  a  told  me  an  hour 
ago  that  I  could  a  drawn  a  cent  out  of  that 
tight-fisted  old  soul,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it. 
And  five  dollars!" 


MRS.  BASSETT  HELPS  HIS  TROUBLE  ALONG.   201 

She  went  over  to  the  bandbox  and  peered 
within  it,  then  tossed  the  crushed  cover 
scornfully  over  the  contents.  "  I  thought  I 
never  should  get  a  new  bonnet ;  never,  in  all 
this  world.  An'  now,  says  I,  I'll  have  one  as 
good  as  the  best  of  'em  ;  see  if  I  don't !  " 

But  the  old  clock  now  striking  ten,  warned 
her  that  the  morning  wouldn't  wait  for  reflec- 
tions even  as  happy  as  her  own  ;  so,  jumping 
up  briskly,  she  attacked  her  neglected  cake- 
mixture,  which  she  speedily  thrust  into  the 
oven,  shutting  the  door  with  a  decided  bang. 

"  Twon't  kill  anybody  for  richness,"  she 
said  with  a  grim  smile.  "But  it's  good  enough, 
seein'  I've  got  to  carry  two  loaves.  'Twas  a 
shame  they  put  down  so  much  to  me.  Well, 
I'll  go  early,  so's  to  get  some  of  Judith  Petti- 
bone's  cake,  an'  Mr.  Bassett  can  come  to  tea, 
an'  pa  an'  the  children  will  have  some  bread 
an'  milk,  so  that'll  save  gettin'  supper  at 
home.  I  guess  I'll  make  it  up." 

So  at  three  o'clock  Mrs.  Bassett  let  her  fire 
go  down  in  the  old  kitchen,  gave  her  last 
directions  to  Janey  "  to  keep  house  good," 
and  having  laid  out  a  clean  shirt  for  her 
husband  in  which  he  might  array  himself  on 


202  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

his  return  from  his  shop,  she  pinned  her  two 
loaves  of  cake  in  a  clean  napkin,  and  wended 
her  way  "  cross  lots "  to  the  "  Squire  Higgins' 
homestead."  Several  matrons  were  before  her 
in  the  well-worn  path  leading  to  the  house. 
They  all  had  large  baskets  or  snowy-napkined 
parcels,  which  even  at  quite  a  distance  emitted 
a  delicious  odor  such  as  can  only  come  from 
the  brick  oven  of  a  New  England  kitchen, 
that  gathers  with  peculiar  sweetness  the  concen- 
trated flavors  of  the  various  edibles  cooked 
therein. 

"  How  d'ye  do  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Bassett,  hurrying 
up  to  join  them.  "  O  Miss  Pettibone  !  glad  to 
see  you.  " 

Miss  Judith  bowed,  and  went  swiftly  up  the 
broad,  box-bordered  path. 

"  Feels  pretty  bad,  don't  she,  about  Deacon 
Badger?"  said  the  shoemaker's  wife,  falling  back 
to  address  a  little  motherly  woman  in  the 
rear. 

"  Hey  ?  What  ?  I  haven't  heard  any  thin' 
about  him,  "  said  the  little  comfortable  body, 
an  anxious  look  at  once  coming  all  over  her 
round  face.  "  Is  he  sick  ?  " 

"What!    Deacon     Badger     sick?"    cried    one 


MBS.  BASSETT HELPS  HIS  TROUBLE  ALONG.    203 

or    two    more,    catching   now   and   then    a   word. 

"  No,  he  ain't  sick,  "  said  Mrs.  Bassett  mys- 
teriously, "but  he  might  as  well  be,  for  all 
the  comfort  he  or  any  of  the  family  will  take. 
Ain't  you  heard  about  it  ?  " 

"No,"  said  all  as  with  one  breath.  "What 
is  it  ?  " 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  tell  us,  Mis.  Bassett ! " 
cried  a  tall,  angular  woman,  stopping  short  in 
the  path.  She  had  long,  angular  curls,  too, 
if  the  expression  can  be  pardoned,  at  either 
side  of  her  high  cheek  bones,  like  sentinels 
set  to  protect  and  enforce  every  word  that  fell 
from  the  rugged  mouth  just  a  little  below 
them.  In  short,  she  looked  like  a  person  who 
usually  "  spoke  her  mind.  " 

"  Oh !  I  can't  stop  now, "  said  the  shoe- 
maker's wife,  hurrying  on;  "an'  besides,  Judith 
Pettibone  will  hear.  You'll  know  before  long. 
Everybody's  talkin'  about  it.  " 

The  tall,  angular  woman  gave  a  "Humph!" 
then  marched  on  stolidly  over  the  flat  door- 
stone  and  into  the  door.  The  first  person  she 
met  was  little  Miss  Scarritt  in  holiday  attire, 
who,  blithe  as  a  bee,  was  helping  people  "lay 
off  their  things"  and  deposit  their  baskets, 


204  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

having  been  detailed  for  this  duty  to  save 
Mrs.  Squire  Higgins,  who  was  quite  feeble 
from  extra  exertion. 

"  It's  your  turn  to  have  the  Society, "  Mrs. 
Parson  Whittaker  had  said  to  Mrs.  Higgins, 
"but  as  Ann  and  Eliza  are  away,  we  shan't 
any  of  us  come  if  you  don't  promise  not  to 
think  of  eatables  or  any  thing  else.  We  will 
see  to  every  thing." 

Consequently  the  little  dressmaker  was  just 
in  her  element ;  and  she  seized  the  tall,  angu- 
lar woman's  basket-handle  with  a  vehemence 
that  bespoke  the  heartiest  of  welcomes. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  she  cried 
sociably;  "you  don't  often  get  out.  Here,  I'll 
set  down  this,  while  you  lay  off  your  bonnet." 

"  No,  you  don't  either,  "  declared  the  angu- 
lar woman  with  a  decisive  nod,  and  hanging 
on  to  her  basket,  while  the  sentinel  curls  sup- 
ported her  by  hopping  up  once  wildly,  to  come 
down  immediately  to  such  a  solemn  state  of 
stiffness  as  would  delude  any  one  into  the 
belief  that  they  couldn't  move.  "  It's  no  time 
to  think  of  baskets  till  this  is  settled  about 
Deacon  Badger.  " 

"  Deacon     Badger ! "     almost    screamed     Miss 


MRS.  BASSETT  HELPS  HIS  TROUBLE  ALONG.    205 

Scarritt.  Then  by  a  monstrous  effort  she  shut 
her  mouth,  but  her  face  got  red,  and  her 
little  eyes  began  to  snap. 

"  Mis.  Bassett,  "  said  the  tall  woman,  indi- 
cating with  her  thumb  that  worthy  matron, 
who,  having  waited  upon  herself,  thus  "  spying 
out  the  land "  in  the  kitchen,  now  slipped 
back  of  them  and  went  into  the  best  room, 
"  has  been  kind  enough  to  hint  something 
dreadful  to  pay  with  Deacon  Badger's  charac- 
ter. " 

"  Mis.  Bassett  is  a  —  la !  what's  the  use,  " 
exclaimed  the  little  dressmaker  contemptuously, 
"don't  we  all  know  her?  Seems  as  if  I'd  run 
down  pretty  low  for  news  when  any  thin'  she'd 
say  would  do  more'n  go  in  one  ear  an'  out 
the  other.  " 

"  I  don't  set  no  more  by  Mis.  Bassett  than 
you  do, "  said  the  tall  woman,  looking  down 
into  the  scornful  little  face,  "but  there's  some- 
thin'  that  other  folks  is  a  talkin'  of.  That's 
what  I  want  to  know. " 

For  one  instant  Miss  Scarritt  turned  cold 
all  over.  She  could  feel  her  little  withered 
cheek  where  a  bright  glow  usually  rested  like 
the  bloom  on  a  late  November  apple,  blanch  with 


206  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

the  fright  that  crept  through  and  through  her  at 
thought  of  Deacon  Badger's  name  handed  around 
as  that  of  one  fallen  from  grace.  But  summon- 
ing all  her  self-control,  she  kept  her  teeth 
from  chattering,  and  was  just  on  the  point  of 
demanding  the  names  of  those  persons  meddling 
with  Deacon  Badger's  character,  when  a  bustle, 
together  with  a  babel  of  voices  in  the  "  best 
room,  "  as  if  some  subject  of  the  greatest  im- 
portance were  started,  arrested  both  her  own 
and  her  companion's  attention. 

"  It's  a  sin  an'  a  shame  if  he  stays  deacon 
after  this.  "  It  was,  without  doubt,  Mrs.  Bassett's 
cold,  hard  voice. 

"  She's  at  it,  "  cried  the  little  dressmaker 
explosively,  her  small  eyes  sparkling  with 
indignation ;  "  at  her  Christian  work  a  ready. 
Now,  then,  Miss  Marigold,  set  down  your  basket 
anywhere.  It's  time  we  were  in  there  to  hear 
what  she  has  to  say. " 

The  wagging  of  tongues  was  something  to 
hear  as  the  two  stepped  into  Mrs.  Squire 
Higgins'  best  room.  All  the  nicest  seats  were 
taken,  excepting  the  corner  of  the  hair-cloth 
sofa  by  the  window,  which,  as  post  of  honor, 
was  reserved  for  Mrs.  Parson  Whittaker.  The 


MRS.  BA SSETT  HELPS  HIS  TROUBLE  ALONG.    207 

rattling  of  knitting-needles  fitted  in  between 
sentences  and  filled  up  all  gaps,  seeming,  by 
its  very  noise,  to  loosen  tongues  that  otherwise 
might  have  been  afraid  to  air  their  owners' 
convictions.  There  was  a  faint  show  of  inter- 
est over  a  pile  of  unbleached  cotton  cloth  on 
the  centre-table,  and  several  matrons  had 
begun  to  take  out  their  heart-shaped  needle- 
books  and  adjust  their  spectacles  preparatory 
to  an  attack  upon  it;  but  the  work  fairly 
under  way  was  some  topic  of  conversation 
brimful  of  importance,  that  was  rapidly  en- 
grossing the  whole  meeting.  In  the  buzz, 
Miss  Scarritt  and  the  tall  woman  entered 
without  attracting  any  attention,  the  little 
dressmaker  slipping  into  a  low  chair  by  the 
door. 

"Oh,  I  can't  think  so!"  Mrs.  Squire 
Higgins'  plaintive  treble  took  up  the  ball. 
"  When  Moses  was  taken  so  suddenly,  Deacon 
Badger  come  right  over  an'  went  out  to  the 
barn  an'  helped  raise  him  an'  bring  him  in 
an'  put  him  on  the  best  bed.  He  never'd 
done  that  if  he'd  been  so  bad  as  you  say.  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  without 
him." 


208  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

She  raised  her  black-bordered  handkerchief 
to  her  eyes,  and  shook  silently  in  her  rocking- 
chair. 

"Oh,  he's  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Bassett  indiffer- 
ently ;  "  but  that  ain't  nothin'  to  do  with 
this." 

"  Kind !  I  should  think  he  was,"  cried 
little  Mrs.  Parsons.  "  An'  what  has  he  done, 
I'd  be  glad  to  know,  that  a  saint  on  earth 
shouldn't  do?" 

Thereupon  ensued  a  general-  murmur  over 
the  room,  while  two  or  three  faces  looked 
dark  and  averted,  as  if  a  sudden  cloud  had 
obscured  their  usual  smiling  content.  The 
shoemaker's  wife  took  out  her  knitting-sheath, 
pinned  it  to  her  side,  pursing  up  her  large 
mouth  meanwhile  as  if  horses  couldn't  draw 
out  the  information  she  possessed,  and  fell  to 
knitting  with  exasperating  deliberateness  on  a 
long  blue  stocking. 

"  Hem ! "  Everybody  started  as  the  tall, 
angular  woman  edged  her  way  into  the  centre 
of  the  group.  "  This  isn't  the  place  to  pick 
words  nor  to  mince  matters.  If  anybody's  got 
any  thin'  to  say  against  anybody  else,  now's 
the  time.  Free  speech  is  the  rule,  an'  there 


MRS.  BA SSETT  HELPS  HIS  TROUBLE  ALONG.    209 

shan't  no  one  be  stopped  from  sayin*  what's 
on  her  mind.  Go  on,  Mis.  Bassett." 

"  I  haven't  any  thin'  to  say,"  responded  that 
worthy  matron,  rattling  her  needles  and  purs- 
ing up  her  mouth  worse  than  ever. 

"  Well,  who  does  know  about  it,  then  ? " 
demanded  the  tall  woman,  her  curl-guarded 
face  slowly  turning  on  all  the  group. 

"  Why,  everybody's  talkin'  about  it,"  cried  the 
shoemaker's  wife  unguardedly,  not  able  to  con- 
ceal her  triumph  longer.  "You  can't  stop  it, 
Miss  Marigold,"  she  added  with  venom,  "an'  I 
wouldn't  advise  you  to  try." 

"  Mis.  Bassett  told  me,"  cried  Mrs.  Folinsbee, 
edging  forward  from  a  big  splint-bottomed 
chair,  "  an'  in  my  opinion,  she's  the  one  that 
started  the  hull  thing,"  she  added  in  a  loud 
voice,  made  angry  enough  by  the  bonnet 
episode  to  testify  a  dozen  times  if  needful, 
against  the  shoemaker's  wife. 

The  face  of  the  latter  flushed  a  deep, 
angry  red,  but  she  was  saved  all  reply  by  two 
or  three  admonitory  coughs  accompanied  by 
certain  hushings  from  various  quarters,  as  Mrs. 
Parson  Whittaker  came  in  and  smilingly  joined 
the  group. 


210  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"Good-afternoon,  ladies,"  she  said  in  her 
pleasant  way  to  all ;  then,  stopping  here  and 
there,  she  inquired  kindly  how  Betsey's  cold 
was,  and  whether  uncle  Reuben  had  recovered 
from  the  rheumatism,  and  so  forth  and  so  on, 
until  she  reached  her  hair-cloth  post  of  honor. 

But  Mrs.  Folinsbee  couldn't  be  stopped  long. 
The  bonnet  causing  the  loss  of  her  cherished 
five  dollars  waved  before  her  and  urged  her 
on.  "  I  donno  what  Deacon  Badger's  done,  an' 
I  donno's  I  care,  but  if  anybody'll  tell  me 
beside  Mis.  Bassett,  why,  I'll  believe  it,"  she 
declared  in  a  high,  excited  key. 

Everybody  stopped  work  at  that  and  stared 
at  each  other,  while  a  dreadful  pause  ensued. 
Mrs.  Whittaker  looked  distressed  beyond  meas- 
ure, and  once  or  twice  opened  her  lips  as  if 
going  to  speak,  but  thought  better  of  it  and 
closed  them  again,  glancing  over  toward  Miss 
Pettibone's  chair  for  explanation. 

Miss  Judith  was  setting  firm,  even  stitches 
in  the  seam  that  had  grown  under  her  busy 
fingers  steadily  all  this  time ;  and  now  she 
seemed  as  coolly  unconscious  of  it  all  as 
though  not  a  breeze  had  been  stirred  that 
threatened  to  prove  a  storm.  Not  a  ripple  of 


MRS.  BASSETT  HELPS  HIS  TRO  UBLE  ALONG.    211 

it  moved  her  quiet  face  as  she  kindly  chatted 
with  her  next  neighbor,  and  handed  scissors 
and  thread  from  her  well-stored  work-bag  to 
others  who  were  not  so  well  prepared  to  do 
missionary  sewing. 

Without  a  bit  of  warning,  there  fell  upon 
her  ears  and  those  belonging  to  every  one  else 
in  the  room,  like  a  clap  of  thunder,  these 
words  in  Mrs.  Bassett's  angry  voice:  "Well, 
if  you  won't  believe  me,  ask  Judith  Pettibone!" 


212  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 


CHAPTER    XII. 
THE    SEWING    SOCIETY    BECOMES    INVOLVED. 

ALL  eyes  were  now  directed  toward  Miss 
Pettibone.  The  rattling  of  the  knitting- 
needles  over  the  room  ceased,  and  embryo 
cotton-cloth  garments  lost  all  charm  immedi- 
ately, as  work  was  dropped  into  the  lap  by 
absorbed  matrons  and  maidens. 

Miss  Judith  looked  up  and  smiled ;  a  smile 
that  seemed  to  take  them  one  and  all  into 
something  so  friendly  that  scandal  and  its 
attendant  train  of  evils  could  find  no  place. 

"  Well  ? "    she   said,   and   smiled   again. 

"You  know,  Miss  Pettibone,"  said  Mrs. 
Bassett,  with  a  scarlet  flame  in  either  cheek, 
and  too  excited  to  think  clearly,  "that  Deacon 
Badger's  been  sayin'  things  that  no  mortal 
man  should,  let  alone  a  deacon  of  a  Church. 
You  know  that  yourself,  as  well  as  you  set 
there,  an'  tain't  any  use  to  pretend  t'other 
way  j  so  1 " 


"HE  SEWING  SOCIETY  BECOMES  INVOLVED.    213 

"  Where  did  you  hear  that,  Mrs.  Bassett  ? " 
asked  Miss  Judith  calmly,  and  fastening  her 
clear  eyes  on  the  angry  face. 

"  It  ain't  any  matter  where  I  heard  it," 
declared  Mrs.  Bassett,  flaring  up  with  a  great 
show  of  independence.  But  she  couldn't  avoid 
an  uneasy  twisting  of  her  large  feet  on  the 
Brussels  carpet,  nor  the  evident  desire  to  avoid 
the  steady  gaze  of  the  clear  gray  eyes. 

"  Where  did  you  say  you  heard  it,  Mrs. 
Bassett  ? "  repeated  Miss  Judith,  as  if  she  had 
sufficient  leisure  to  wait  for  an  answer.  "  I 
think  we  all  ought  to  know  that  before  any 
thing  else  is  said." 

"  It  ain't  any  matter,  I  said,"  cried  the  vexed 
woman.  "  That  makes  no  dif'rence  either.  You 
know  that  Deacon  Badger's  been  abusin'  Doctor 
Pilcher." 

"An!"  said  Miss  Pettibone  coolly.  "Now 
you  assert  something  that,  without  giving  us 
your  authority,  I'm  afraid  will  not  make  much 
impression,  Mrs.  Bassett." 

The  shoemaker's  wife  bit  her  lips  in  vexa- 
tion of  spirit.  How  much  she  would  have 
given  to  be  able  to  say  she  had  come  by  her 
knowledge  honestly,  and  in  a  way  that  all 


214  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

would  respect.  But  it  would  scarcely  produce 
other  result  than  contempt  and  ridicule,  to 
impart  the  fact  that  she  had  been  down  on 
her  knees  in  the  Scarritt  entry,  with  ear  at 
the  Scarritt  key- hole  So  she  twisted  and 
turned  this  way  and  that  in  her  chair,  trying 
to  invent  some  way  to  save  her  credit,  and 
yet  launch  out  successfully  this  cherished  freight 
of  scandal. 

Miss  Pettibone  gave  her  one  long  moment 
of  calm  scrutiny ;  then  she  took  up  her  inter- 
rupted seam  and  fell  to  sewing  again,  now  and 
then  turning  to  a  neighbor  with  some  light 
remark  that  evinced  the  little  episode  to  have 
taken  no  deep  root  in  her  mind. 

The  others,  following  her  example,  gathered 
up  work  again  and  began  bits  of  talk  on 
different  subjects,  working  womanfully  at  them. 
But  it  was  no  use  so  far  as  general  success 
was  concerned.  Not  even  Miss  Judith  Pettibone, 
whom  they  all  reverenced,  and  to  whom  they 
looked  as  leader,  could  make  them  forget  the 
sting  of  the  idea  lodged  in  their  minds.  The 
very  thought  of  it  made  them  fidgety  and 
constrained,  so  that  talk  soon  waxed  faint,  and 
the  spirit  of  the  meeting  ebbed  lower  and  lower. 


THE  SEWING  SOCIETY  BECOMES  INVOLVED.  215 

At  last,  after  various  consultings  of  the 
clock,  little  Mrs.  Parsons  nudged  Miss  Mari- 
gold and  whispered  animatedly  the  first  syllable 
she  had  allowed  herself  to  enjoy:  "We  ought 
to  be  seein'  to  cuttin'  the  biscuits  and  the 
ham.  That's  our  part,  you  know ;  and  it's 
time  to  start  now." 

"  It's  early  yet,"  said  Miss  Marigold,  looking 
up  at  the  big  corner  clock ;  "  not  quite  four. 
Well,  I  donno,  though,"  she  added,  "but  what 
we  might  as  well  commence  ;  sometimes  it  takes 
longer  than  you  think  for." 

So  she  drew  off  her  horn  thimble,  as  she 
spoke,  and,  folding  up  her  work  deliberately,  set- 
tled her  curls  and  was  ready  for  business  at 
once. 

"  Yes,  it  takes  longer  than  you  think  for," 
echoed  Mrs.  Parsons,  skipping  to  her  feet  and 
shaking  the  threads  from  her  delaine ;  and, 
with  the  air  of  a  child  set  free  from  close 
confinement,  she  stepped  briskly  out  into  the 
large  kitchen,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  I  declare,  Miss  Marigold,"  she  said  when 
fairly  within  its  cheerful  shelter,  "  I  thought 
'twould  never  come  time  to  begin  gettin'  tea, 
I  was  so  nervous  I  couldn't  a  sat  another 


216  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

minute  longer  if  I  was  to  be  killed.  What  do 
you  s'pose  it  means  ?  " 

"  It  means,"  said  Miss  Marigold  impres- 
sively, "that  no  one  is  safe  from  that  long 
Bassett  tongue.  That's  what  it  means." 

"  But  do  you  s'pose  she  really  did  know 
any  thin'  against  Deacon  Badger  ? "  asked  the 
little  apple-faced  woman  anxiously.  "  It  can't 
be ;  that  good  man  couldn't  a  done  any  thin' 
wrong  or  said  any  thin"  out  of  the  way.  I  should 
as.  soon  think  of  Parson  Whittaker  as  him." 

"Don't  you  fret,  Mis.  Parsons,"  said  the  tall 
woman  composedly  ;  "  it's  a  tempest  in  a  tea- 
pot, all  brewed  by  that  Mis.  Bassett.  Come, 
now,  we've  come  out  to  tackle  the  biscuit  and 
ham,  and  I  move  we  do  it."  So  she  began  to 
lift  the  covers  of  the  various  baskets,  and 
unpin  napkins,  freely  making  comments  as  she 
did  so,  calculated  to  draw  off  her  companion's 
attention  from  her  worry. 

"  Mercy !  Mis.  Folinsbee's  brought  some  of 
her  hard  old  biscuit.  I  remember  when  she 
had  S'ciety  last  year,  an'  it  seemed  as  if  we 
should  break  all  our  teeth  on  'em." 

"  She's  apt  to  get  a  hard  bake,"  said  little 
Mrs.  Parsons,  only  half  attending. 


THE  SEWING  SOCIETY  BECOMES  INVOLVED.   217 

"  Hard  bake !  I  sh'd  think  she  was,"  replied 
the  tall  woman.  "Well,  put  a  few  on  each 
plate,  Mis.  Parsons,  an'  shove  'em  well  under. 
Well  under,  you  know ;  that'll  get  rid  of  'em 
by  degrees." 

"  An'  Doctor  Pilcher's  awful  aggravating" 
said  Mrs.  Parsons  absently,  tying  on  a  long 
brown  linen  apron,  and  taking  up  the  ham- 
knife,  "so  I  don't  know  as  I  should  blame 
the  Deacon  for  speakin'  up  pretty  sharp  to 
him." 

"  For  pity's  sake,  Mis.  Parsons,"  exclaimed  the 
tall  woman,  clapping  to  a  basket  cover,  "  do  stop 
while  we  get  this  tea!  My  head  can't  hold  but 
one  idea  at  a  time.  I'll  tell  you  one  thing, 
though,  an'  that's  all  I  shall  say  to-night  ; "  and 
she  planted  both  hands  firmly  on  the  big  table. 
"  No  one  knows  any  thin'  about  this  business 
but  Judith  Pettibone,  and  she  won't  tell !  " 

"  How'd  you  find  that  out  ?  "  asked  the  little 
apple-faced  woman,  staring  in  astonishment. 

But  Miss  Marigold  was  deep  in  another  relay 
of  immense  tea-biscuits  approaching  small  loaves 
of  bread  in  size,  and  was  already  halving  and 
buttering  with  an  energy  that  was  contagious, 
and  that  presently  involved  her  small  companion  ; 


218  THE  PETT1BONE  NAME. 

especially  as  she  saw  that   no   answer   would   be 
forthcoming  if  she  repeated  her  question. 

The  fathers  and  husbands  beginning  to  drop 
into  the  "  best  room "  for  supper,  brought  out 
into  the  kitchen  the  matrons  detailed  to  make 
the  tea,  cut  the  cake,  and  arrange  the  last  things, 
so  that  the  lively  bustle  that  ensued  was  wel- 
comed on  all  hands  as  a  good  diversion  that 
afforded  immense  relief. 

"  Lucy,"  said  Miss  Judith  in  a  low  voice,  detain- 
ing for  a  quiet  word  or  two  the  pink-cheeked  young 
girl,  who,  with  a  bright  smile  and  a  happy  look  for 
all,  now  came  in  with  Miriam  Pettibone  and  some 
other  young  girls  of  the  parish,  to  "pass  around  the 
tea,"  "is  any  one  coming  from  your  house  to- 
night ? " 

"No,"  said  Lucy  in  a  surprised  tone.  "Great- 
grandma  has  got  a  cold,  an'  grandma  has  to 
stay  with  her." 

Miss  Judith  needed  to  ask  no  other  ques- 
tion. She  knew  that  the  low  state  of  Deacon 
Badger's  mind  would  not  permit  him  to  indulge 
himself  in  any  comfort  such  as  could  be  ex- 
tracted from  a  cup  of  the  Society  tea  and  two 
or  three  of  the  Society  doughnuts,  interspersed 


THE  SEWING  SOCIETY  BECOMES  INVOLVED.  219 

with  a  harmless  modicum  of  the  Society  talk, 
until  he  should  become  reconciled  to  his  brother. 
So  she  breathed  freer,  and  after  a  bright  bit 
of  chat  that  drew  the  young  girl  into  her  heart 
more  than  ever,  Miss  Judith  hurried  her  off 
with, — 

"There,  go,  dear,  and  see  how  nice  and  deft 
a  little  waiter  you  can  be !  " 

Not  all  the  impetus  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
occasion,  produced  by  the  appearance  of  the 
masculine  portion  of  the  Society,  almost  imme- 
diately followed  by  the  fragrant  tea  and  gen- 
erous eatables,  could  more  than  temporarily  lift 
the  settled  cloud  that  seemed  to  weigh  down 
the  spirits  of  the  company.  Not  even  did  the 
entrance  of  the  parson  himself,  who  usually 
found  every  one  anxious  to  hold  the  ministerial 
button-hole  for  as  long  a  time  as  would  be 
allowed,  make  matters  any  better.  It  only 
seemed  to  grow  more  constrained  and  unpleas- 
ant than  before,  his  advent  stopping  the  con- 
verse of  those  few  persons  who  had  braved 
public  opinion  enough  to  creep  away  into  cor- 
ners, their  heads  together  over  their  "  suppose 
so's,"  and  "shouldn't  thinks,"  concerning  the 
new  topic,  the  minister's  appearance  being 


220  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

always   the    signal    for    private    conversation    to 
merge  into  general  sociability. 

But  this  evening  Mr.  Whittaker  talked 
against,  he  instinctively  felt,  some  preoccupation 
of  mind  on  the  part  of  the  feminine  portion 
of  his  parishioners.  And  as  conversation  under 
such  circumstances  could  not  be  very  enjoyable, 
he  presently  gave  up  trying,  and,  after  a  few 
desultory  remarks  on  the  weather,  he  looked 
helplessly  at  his  good  spouse,  and  waited  for 
her  to  do  the  rest. 

"We  ought  not  to  stay  late,"  said  Mrs.  Whit- 
taker,  catching  the  look,  and  turning  to  a 
group  of  matrons ;  "  Mrs.  Higgins  isn't  strong 
enough." 

"Sure  enough,"  quickly  acquiesced  an  old 
lady,  who,  having  some  twinges  of  rheumatism, 
was  beginning  to  think  of  home  and  her  com- 
fortable bed.  "  Well,  s'posin'  you  ask  your  hus- 
band to  lead  us  to  the  throne  o'  grace. 
Jane" — to  her  sister — "where's  your  bag?  I'll 
put  my  knittin'  in't." 

The  long  prayer  having  been  finished,  in 
which  nobody  in  Christian  or  heathen  lands 
could  be  said  to  be  forgotten,  the  assembly 
began  to  show  signs  of  breaking  up.  The  old 


THE  SEWING  SOCIETY  BECOMES  INVOLVED.  221 

ladies  who  had  slept  through  its  petitions,  now 
wiped  their  eyes,  declaring  it  so  spiritual,  and 
roused  themselves  to  gather  up  their  big  work- 
bags,  wherein  reposed,  with  needle-book  and 
scissors,  generous  wedges  of  the  various  kinds 
of  cake  passed  around  at  supper-time.  Along 
with  these  were  tucked  in  hopes  of  obtaining 
the  several  receipts  for  the  same ;  hopes,  it  is 
needless  to  say,  that  invariably  came  to  naught, 
each  matron  guarding  jealously  her  own  espe- 
cial reputation  for  producing  a  cake  that  none 
other  could  attain  unto.  This  gave  her  a  prom- 
inence that  filled  her  whole  soul  with  pride,  and 
made  life  worth  living. 

"  Huldy,"  said  aunt  Martha  Gibson,  the  kind- 
est old  soul  in  the  world,  who  had  been  known, 
although  the  pink  of  neatness,  to  let  flies  revel  in 
her  tidy  home  rather  than  have  them  killed,  and 
who'  had  refrained  carefully  from  allowing  her 
lips  to  let  fall  any  word  relative  to  the  scan- 
dal set  going  in  the  "best  room,"  "I  can 
skurcely  pin  my  bunnet-strings.  You'll  hev  to 
do  it,  darter,  I'm  so  all  in  a  shake  sence 
that  ere  talk  was  begun." 

Huldah,    who   was   no   fonder  of    gossip    than 


222  THE  PETT1BONE  NAME. 

her  mother,  darted  over  to  the  gorgeous  pink- 
and-white  pin-cushion  that  adorned  the  bureau 
of  the  "  northwest  corner  bedroom "  set  apart 
for  the  reception  of  cloaks  and  hoods  when- 
ever the  Higgins'  family  had  company. 

"  We'll  hurry,  ma,  an'  get  off  before  the  rest 
come  in,"  she  said,  returning  with  her  pin. 
"  There ! "  and  she  fastened  the  old  lady's 
bonnet-string  as  if  she  meant  it  to  stay. 

"  'Twas  awful !  "  said  her  mother,  feeling  per- 
fectly safe  now  that  she  was  alone  with  one 
of  her  own  family,  in  opening  her  mind  a  trifle, 
"  to  set  an'  hear  it  !  O  Huldy  !  Deacon  Badger 
can  never  get  over  it  in  all  this  world." 

"  I'm  afraid  he  can't,"  said  Huldah,  getting 
another  pin  for  herself.  "  There,  ma,  we're  all 
right  now."  And  she  rapidly  inducted  herself 
into  her  outer  garments,  carrying  a  very  sober 
face  meanwhile. 

"No,"  said  the  old  lady;  "when  a  breath  is 
raised  agin  a  good  man  like  him,  it  don't  down. 
It's  a  gret  deal  wus  than  if  he  was  wicked. 
I'm  afraid  the  Church'll  hev  to  take  it  up ! " 

Huldah  passed  out  into  the  wide  old  hall  and 
waited  for  the  old  lady's  slower  footsteps,  just  as 
Miriam  Pettibone  hurried  past  her  into  the  big  room. 


THE  SEWING  SOCIETY  BECOMES  IN  VOL  VED.   223 

"Lucy!"  she  called,  looking  eagerly  around. 

A  little  rustling  noise  made  her  seek  for  the 
cause,  and,  guided  by  a  faint  "Here!"  she 
found  her  friend  with  her  face  pressed  to  the 
wall,  in  the  angle  of  the  broad  fireplace. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Lucy  ?  Tell  me !  tell 
me ! "  cried  Miriam  in  affright,  and  trying  to 
turn  her  around. 

"I  was  —  coming  —  in,"  said  the  young  girl 
between  her  sobs,  "to  help — them  —  when  I 
heard  —  such  dreadful  —  things  about  —  about 
grandpa.  Then  —  I  couldn't  stir." 

"  Who  said  them  ? "  cried  Miriam  with  flash- 
ing eyes,  and  drawing  up  her  slender  figure. 
"Tell  me,  Lucy!  and  do  turn  around  and  let 
me  see  your  face,"  she  begged. 

But  Lucy,  realizing  that  here  was  something 
that  even  her  best  friend  was  powerless  to 
help,  silently  sobbed  on.  Suddenly  she  yielded 
to  Miriam's  pleadings,  and  turned.  It  was  only 
to  bound  past  her  in  uncontrollable  grief  as 
she  rushed  out  of  the  room,  sorrow  lending 
swiftness  to  her  young  feet.  Home,  home,  was  all 
her  thought  as  on  she  sped,  carrying  into  the 
old  Badger  homestead  the  first  breath  of  scan- 
dal against  its  honored  name. 


224  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 
PARSON    WHITTAKER. 

THE  Church  didn't  "  take  it  up,"  as  aunty 
Gibson  had  feared,  wisely  considering 
it  the  better  course  to  ignore  the  whole  affair. 
But  the  church-members,  individually,  did,  and, 
according  to  his  or  her  own  particular  preju- 
dice, waged  war  with  the  tongue,  upon  the 
two  so  unfortunately  at  variance.  The  greater 
number,  of  course,  swelled  the  Deacon's  adher- 
ents ;  still  there  was  a  strong  showing  on  the 
little  physician's  side,  for  his  skill  had  won 
good  friends  sufficiently  powerful  to  be  feared. 
Furthermore,  the  Deacon,  who,  in  the  inno- 
cence of  his  soul,  fondly  believed  that  he  had 
not  an  enemy  in  the  world,  now  awoke 
to  the  fact  that  he  had  several.  Men  who  had 
through  so  many  years  witnessed  his  upright 
life  as  a  constant  reproach  to  their  own,  now 
that  he  was  suddenly  charged  with  a  grievous 


PARSON  WIIITTAKER.  225 

backsliding,  saw  no  reason  for  concealing  their 
satisfaction.  They  therefore  came  out  boldly, 
and  helped  the  tide  along  against  the  Deacon's 
good  name. 

Out  of  numerous  consultations  over  ways  and 
means  for  bringing  this  unhappy  misunder- 
standing to  a  peaceful  issue,  the  ministers  of 
the  two  parishes  invariably  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that,  as  matters  were,  any  further  inter- 
ference would  be  disastrous.  The  people,  there- 
fore, seeing  the  dignitaries  of  the  two  churches 
viewing  the  affair  with  calm  indifference,  took 
the  whole  story  into  the  privacy  of  their  own 
particular  sets,  where  they  rolled  it  over  and 
over  to  their  hearts'  content  :  A  ball  that  had 
grown  to  alarming  proportions,  by  the  fact  that 
Doctor  Pilcher  had  acknowledged,  in  response 
to  the  constant  plying  of  questions,  that  Deacon 
Badger  had  treated  him  as  no  man,  let  alone 
a  deacon,  should  treat  another;  then  obstinately 
refusing  to  furnish  a  bit  of  additional  informa- 
tion, the  little  physician  wrapped  himself  in 
grim  silence,  and  let  the  gossip  wag  on. 

Such  a  state  of  affairs  bringing  the  Rever- 
end Mr.  Beebe  over  the  hills  frequently,  he  had 
many  opportunities  to  remember  his  promise  to 


226  THE  PETTIEONE  NAME. 

Bobby  Jane,  which  he  religiously  kept.  He  not 
only  called  on  her  once,  but  often,  following 
up  his  attentions  in  such  a  friendly  way  that 
the  child  considered  him  her  own  especial 
property,  and  accordingly  claimed  him  on 
every  occasion  that  suited  her  fancy.  And, 
being  very  much  impressed  with  his  forlorn 
state  as  regarded  little  girls,  she  straightway 
adopted  him  into  her  own  warm  little  heart, 
sticking  to  her  charge  with  the  greatest  per- 
sistence. 

Time  flew  very  fast  about  these  days,  bounded 
by  weeks  that  were  marked  by  Tom's  letters, 
or  the  getting  ready  a  box  for  "the  boy  at 
school." 

Little  Ira  slipped  into  his  brother's  place  up 
at  the  parsonage,  and  two  or  three  evenings  a 
week,  when  he  much  rather  be  playing  games 
with  the  rest  of  the  merry  crew  in  the  old 
kitchen,  he  would  look  dutifully  up  at  the  big 
clock  in  the  corner,  and  with  a  sigh  reach  down 
his  cap  from  its  peg  behind  the  door,  gather  up 
his  books,  and  trudge  sturdily  off  down  the  hill. 
The  only  thing  that  kept  him  at  it  was  their 
all  saying  : 

"Tom's  goin'  to  be  a  man,   Ira." 


PAESON  WHITTAKER.  227 

That  his  brother  should  be  a  man,  and  he 
not  become  one,  was  not  to  be  thought  of  for 
a  single  instant.  So  he  kept  at  every  lesson, 
making  Mr.  Whittaker  long  for  the  former  days 
and  the  absent  one  more  than  ever  the  Israel- 
ites mourned  for  their  beloved  flesh-pots. 

"He's  good,  and  he'll  stick  to  it,"  said  Miss 
Judith,  when  the  minister  confided  to  her  his 
troubles.  "  He's  got  a  great  deal  of  pa's  perse- 
verance along  with  his  name." 

"  Yes,"  inwardly  groaned  the  minister  ;  "  but, 
Miss  Judith,"  he  asked,  "  do  you  know  of  any 
other  way  in  which  I  can  make  the  lessons 
interesting  to  the  boy,  so  that  he  will  love  to 
come  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear  me !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Pettibone  ; 
"  don't  you  worry  about  that,  Mr.  Whittaker. 
That  isn't  Ira's  way.  If  you  tried  your  very 
best,  'twouldn't  please  him  a  bit  better.  If  he 
once  gets  it  into  his  head  that  he  must  study, 
why,  he'll  stick  to  it  through  thick  and  thin,  in 
his  slow  way,  without  missing  an  evening." 

The  minister  sighed,  and  went  back  to  next 
Sunday's  sermon. 

Those  sermons  that  had  stood  the  test  of  so 
many  years  in  his  conscientious  introspections, 


228  THE  PETTIEONE  NAME. 

suddenly  seemed  to  fail  him.  In  a  puzzled  way, 
he  looked  patiently  for  the  reason.  A  revelation 
of  something  lacking — the  power  that  wins  men's 
souls  over  to  the  right  —  stood  out  before  his 
astonished  vision  with  painful  exactness.  And 
while  he  searched  for  the  cause,  it  became  more 
and  more  distasteful  to  him  to  work  out  what 
he  now  thought  scarcely  worth  the  putting  down 
on  paper ;  and  he  fell  into  the  habit  of  calling 
upon  the  minister  from  Franklin  to  help  him 
out  by  an  exchange  as  often  as  was  possible.  So 
the  good  people  of  Barkhamsted  became  accus- 
tomed to  seeing  the  Reverend  Mr.  Beebe  in  the 
pulpit  often,  an  adjustment  of  affairs  that  began 
to  be  very  agreeable  to  all  the  parishioners, 
some  of  Mr.  Whittaker's  warmest  friends,  as  he 
reckoned  them,  wishing  secretly  that  a  perma- 
nent exchange  might  be  effected. 

However,  outwardly, every  thing  wagged  on  just 
the  same.  The  round  of  sermons  on  eternal 
punishment,  total  depravity,  and  the  doctrine  of 
election,  finished  their  course,  to  be  begun  again 
with  unabated  vigor,  and  the  Reverend  Adoniram 
descended  his  pulpit  stairs  every  Sunday  with 
a  growing  despondency  over  the  deadness  of  his 
people  to  spiritual  things. 


PARSON  WHITTAKER.  229 

"  I  don't  present  the  truth  in  the  right  way," 
he  said,  pacing  the  long-suffering  old  study- 
carpet  one  bright  Saturday  morning,  and  looking 
over  for  sympathy  to  his  friend,  "else  there 
would  be  more  interest  in  the  saving  of  souls. 
I've  never  had  a  revival  since  I  came  to  this 
place." 

He  made  the  confession  in  a  shamefaced  way, 
and  paused  to  hear  the  expression  of  surprise 
he  thought  would  follow. 

"  And  you  never  will,"  said  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Beebe  composedly,  "as  long  as  you  look  for  it, 
and  make  it  the  aim  of  your  preaching." 

"  What  ! "  Mr.  Whittaker  turned  squarely 
around  and  gazed  at  his  friend  in  the  utmost 
surprise.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  we,  as 
servants  of  the  Lord,  are  not  to  look  and  hope 
for  great  things  —  the  harvest  of  many  souls 
gathered  into  the  kingdom  ?  Why,  the  Word  of 
God  expressly  declares  that  we  must  so  look  and 
hope." 

"  Yes;  I  do  mean  to  say  it,"  replied  Mr.  Beebe, 
just  as  composedly  as  before,  "when  the  looking 
and  hoping  become  so  centred  on  the  result, 
as  to  lose  sight  of  the  steps  on  the  way.  I 
think  the  Lord  means,  Adoniram,  that  our  whole 


230  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

strength  should  be  thrown  into  whatsoever  we 
do,  or  wheresoever  we  go,  as  a  present  duty, 
without  very  much  of  the  thought  of  the  result 
crowding  upon  our  minds.  I  tell  you,  sermons 
preached  for  a  revival  do  more,  I  am  convinced, 
to  hinder  that  good  work  than  any  other  means 
of  grace  misapplied  can  possibly  achieve." 

"What  would  you  do?"  asked  Mr.  Whit- 
taker  in  a  troubled  voice.  "  It  must  be  kept  in 
some  way  before  the  people,  especially  the  grow- 
ing portion  of  the  congregation,  else  they  will 
think  me  cold  in  the  matter  that  is  of  vital  im- 
portance, and,  judging  me  cold  and  indifferent 
in  regard  to  it,  will  lose  all  interest  in  it  them- 
selves. And  in  the  meantime,  Hiram,  souls  are 
dying  around  us  every  day." 

He  commenced  to  walk  up  and  down  again, 
this  time  more  rapidly,  as  his  perturbation  of 
mind  increased. 

"  Stop  preaching  at  them,  and  preach  the 
Gospel." 

His   friend    spoke   concisely. 

"Why,  I  do  preach  the  Gospel!"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Whittaker,  in  a  manner  so  hurt,  that,  if  there 
had  not  been  considerable  indignation  under- 
lying the  words,  his  friend  would  have  been 


PARSON  WUITTAKER.  231 

troubled  at  once.  As  it  was,  the  indignation 
saved  him  from  needless  worry. 

"I  grow  sounder  in  doctrine  every  year,"  pur- 
sued Mr.  Whittaker ;  "  I  know  that  myself.  A 
man  can  tell  when  he  is  growing,  Hiram.  I  can 
handle  a  theological  discussion,  and  trace  the 
argument,  with  a  clearer  spiritual  discernment 
than  ever  before.  And  yet —  He  stopped  at 
the  barrier  that  had  cost  him  many  sleepless 
nights  and  anxious  days. 

"And  yet,"  repeated  his  friend,  taking  it 
up  and  going  rapidly  on  in  direct,  simple  sen- 
tences, "  that  is  just  as  far  as  you  will  ever  go 
until  you  come  down  from  this  height  from  which 
you  preach  at  your  congregation.  Preach  Christ. 
Forget  all  about  your  longing  for  a  revival. 
Preach  Christ  and  him  crucified.  Forget  all 
about  yourself.  If  you  have  but  one  sermon  to 
write  —  if  you  knew  it  was  to  be  your  last  in 
which  you  could  have  an  opportunity  to  reach 
a  single  soul  —  let  it  be  Christ !  Christ !  Christ 
all  through  it." 

There  was  a  stillness  in  the  old  study  for  some 
moments.  Then  Mr.  Whittaker  came  up  to  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Beebe's  chair,  and  put  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 


232  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  In  all  your  goodness  to  me,  Hiram,"  he 
said  brokenly,  "  you  have  never  done  what  you 
have  for  my  soul  this  morning.  Now  let  me  be 
alone  with  God  till  he  shows  me  my  mistake." 

Mr.  Beebe  silently  took  his  hat  and  went  back 
over  the  hill  to  his  study,  where  he  wrestled  in 
prayer  for  his  friend  and  for  his  growth  in 
grace,  that,  in  pointing  others  to  the  light,  he 
might  lose  himself  in  Christ. 

The  following  Sabbath  morning  there  was  a 
large  congregation  present,  there  having  been, 
in  some  unexplainable  way,  a  report  started  that 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Beebe  of  Franklin  was  to  preach. 

Accordingly,  when  their  pastor  walked  up 
the  aisle,  there  were  some  disappointed  looks 
exchanged,  and  many  nudges  from  the  younger 
portion  of  the  congregation.  He  saw  nothing 
of  all  this,  but,  with  bent  head,  kept  steadily 
on  his  way  up  the  old  pulpit  stairs,  and 
quietly  sat  down,  covering  his  face  with  his 
hand. 

The  choir  was  more  elaborate  in  its  efforts 
than  usual,  monopolizing  a  large  amount  of  the 
time  devoted  to  the  opening  exercises,  and 
then  the  pastor  rose  to  pray.  The  first  few 
words  uttered,  many  —  good,  devout  Christians 


PAESON  WHITTAKEK.  233 

as  they  were — raised  their  heads  involuntarily, 
to  stare  up  into  the  pulpit  at  the  one  who 
was  leading  them  in  prayer. 

As  if  not  a  soul  were  present  between  him- 
self and  his  God,  this  man  was  pouring  out 
his  whole  heart  in  one  earnest  supplication  for 
the  descent  of  the  Spirit,  as  the  gift  of  all 
gifts. 

"  He  wist  not  that  his  face  shone ; "  he 
thought  nothing  of  the  effect  upon  those  who 
sat  below  to  hear  his  words  ;  he  only  felt  that 
unto  him  was  given  one  more  opportunity  to 
prevail  with  God  for  the  souls  under  his  charge. 

The  stillness  as  the  people  sat  back  in  their 
seats  to  listen  to  the  sermon,  was  deep  and 
almost  oppressive. 

But  Mr.  Whittaker,  instead  of  opening  the 
big  Bible  to  give  out  the  text  as  usual,  stopped 
and  looked  over  the  old  church  with  a  gaze 
that  had  in  it  much  of  affection,  more  of  an 
earnest  purpose. 

A  pin  dropped  could  have  easily  been  heard, 
the  stillness  was  so  profound  as  the  pastor 
said : 

"  My  friends,  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you  to-day  before  I  can  give  to  you  the  mes- 


234  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

sage  from  God.  He  demands  that  I  shall 
tell  it  to  you  —  what  he  has  done  for  my  soul. 

"He  has  come  to  me  —  how,  it  matters  not 
—  with  a  gracious  revelation  of  his  mercy  and 
love.  Mercy,  in  that  he  permits  me'  to  stand 
in  this  sacred  desk  to-day  to  tell  you  this  ; 
and  love,  that  he  could  so  far  forgive  the 
narrowness  and  the  ignorance  that  have  gone 
on  striving  to  lead,  when  my  own  soul  was 
blind  to  the  rich  fullness  of  the  truth  in 
Christ  Jesus.  My  friends,  I  have  made  a 
mistake.  I  have  starved  your  souls  when  I 
might  have  been  filling  them  with  the  satisfy- 
ing food  that  only  comes  as  a  soul  is  near 
enough  to  the  hand  of  the  Lord  to  receive  it. 
I  have  wasted,  and  worse  than  wasted,  the 
precious  time  of  many  Sabbaths,  in  specula- 
tions over  God's  word  ;  in  the  unfolding  of 
some  doctrine  in  the  sermon,  worked  out,  as 
I  vainly  thought,  of  a  heart  true  to  its  Maker. 

"  I  have  led  you  all  blindly  where  I  might 
have  pointed  to  the  light.  I  have  been  feed- 
ing you  dry  husks  instead  of  the  bread  of 
life.  I  have  given  to  you  empty  words  instead 
of  living,  scintillating  messages  in  the  spirit  of 
Christ. 


PARSON  WHITTAKER.  235 

"I  ask  you  to  forgive  me  as  God  has  for- 
given me,  and  to  begin  with  me  a  new  and 
better  life.  Hereafter,  whatever  I  give  to  you 
from  this  pulpit,  it  shall  be  as  Christ  speaks 
to  my  own  soul  ;  for  to  know  him,  and  to 
preach  him  crucified,  is  all  I  ask." 

He  opened  the  big  Bible  and  gave  out  the 
text ;  but  few  could  have  told  what  it  was. 

All  over  the  old  church,  the  emotion  that 
had  been  stirred  was  sweeping  the  whole 
assembly  as  a  breath  from  the  Lord.  Eyes 
that  had  been  unaccustomed  to  weep  were 
suffused  with  tears  ;  faces,  whose  hard  lines 
showed  what  a  battle  life  had  been  to  them  in 
that  rugged  hill-town,  were  working  convul- 
sively to  conceal  the  feeling  beneath.  They 
only  knew  that  he  spoke  with  a  simple 
directness,  as  from  the  Master ;  that  he  gave 
to  them  such  a  rich  revelation  of  the  all- 
absorbing  love  that  yearned  over  them,  that  it 
was  as  if  they  heard  the  Gospel  for  the  first 
time  in  their  lives  that  morning. 

When  the  last  words  of  the  benediction  fell 
from  his  lips,  the  congregation  stole  out 
silently,  without  waiting,  as  was  their  habit,  to 
interchange  greetings  and  bits  of  gossip  with 


236  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

each  other.  The  little  children  who  were  to 
wait  through  the  intermission  till  the  Sabbath- 
school  began,  and  those  who  lived  too  far  to 
make  the  journey  to  their  homes  and  return 
for  the  afternoon  services,  sat  quietly  in  little 
groups  of  twos  or  threes,  with  sober  faces, 
and  hearts  hushed  by  the  unwonted  solemnity 
brooding  over  the  old  church. 

One  and  another  of  the  older  members,  with 
that  reticence  inborn  in  the  fine  New-England 
nature,  grasped  their  pastor's  hand  silently  as  he 
passed  out.  But  the  pressure  spoke  more  than 
words  ;  and  the  light  over  the  honest  faces  was 
enough.  Old  aunty  Gibson  ejaculated,  "Praise 
the  Lord ! "  and  trembled  with  delight  as  she 
sat  waiting  in  her  large  square  pew  for  the  after- 
noon service  to  begin. 

The  young  people  having  commenced,  since 
they  found,  as  they  expressed  it,  "  Mr.  Whittaker 
is  getting  a  little  dull,  "  to  stay  at  home  of  a 
Sunday  afternoon,  it  was  an  unusual  sight  to 
see  at  this  particular  service  every  available  seat 
filled  with  earnest,  serious  people  listening 
eagerly  to  the  voice  of  the  Lord  as  if  for  the 
first  time.  Many  were  visibly  affected  beyond 
concealment  from  their  neighbors.  The  sound 


PARSON  WHITTAKER.  237 

of   sobs    went    around   from   pew   to   pew,    while 
the  little  ones  gazed  wonderingly  on  it  all. 

"  There  will  be  a  meeting  for  prayer  in  this 
house,  this  evening,"  the  pastor  said  in  con- 
clusion, "where  I  hope  we  shall  all  meet 
God."  And  the  large  assembly  went  to  their 
houses. 

There  was  no  need  to  ring  the  bell  for  even- 
ing service.  No  need  to  ask  any  one  to  pray, 
to  fill  up  long,  painful  pauses.  No  need  to 
urge  men  to  look  to  God,  for  the  eyes  of  all, 
young  and  old,  were  turned  to  the  Cross,  while 
their  hearts  cried  out  :  "  What  shall  we  do  to 
be  saved  ? " 

Many  rose  for  prayers  that  night.  Job  Titus, 
who  never  had  been  known  to  pray,  got  up, 
and  raising  himself  to  his  tall  height,  said  : 
"  I've  been  a  disbeliever  alwus ;  but  if  the 
Lord'll  forgive  me,  I'll  serve  him  the  rest  of 
my  life.  "  And  Silas  Folinsbee,  who  hadn't 
been  inside  of  a  prayer-meeting  within  the  mem- 
ory of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  said,  in  a  trem- 
bling voice,  from  his  seat,  "  Pray  for  me. " 

Fathers  wept  with  joy  to  see  their  children 
brought  into  the  realization  of  a  craving  in 
their  hearts  for  a  new  and  better  life.  Hus- 


238  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

bands  and  wives  rejoiced  together  over  the 
chasm  that  had  divided  them  now  filled  by 
the  love  of  God. 

Meetings      were     appointed     for      the     week, 

t 

some  in  the  church  and  others  in  the  school- 
houses  of  the  different  districts.  No  need  to 
ask  the  people  to  attend.  The  notice  simply 
was  given  out. 

All  the  next  day  Miriam  avoided  any  con- 
versation with  her  aunt.  Up  and  down  the 
crooked  stairs  she  tripped,  merrier  than  usual, 
with  a  scrap  of  a  song  on  her  lips,  or  a  light 
laugh.  Always  helpful,  she  tried  more  than 
ever  to  anticipate  any  little  want  that  Miss 
Judith  might  be  supposed  to  have ;  but  as  for 
talking,  or  meeting  her  eye,  some  slight  pre- 
text would  make  her  fly  out  of  the  room 
whenever  she  fancied  what  she  dreaded  was 
coming. 

She  needn't  have  troubled  herself,  however, 
for  nothing  was  further  from  Miss  Judith's 
mind,  than  any  spoken  interference  with  the 
still,  small  voice  in  the  young  girl's  heart. 

Miss  Scarritt,  however,  did  not  so  read  the 
mind  of  the  Lord.  He  seemed  to  tell  her  to 
speak,  and  she  watched  for  a  chance  to  do 


PARSON  WHITTAKER.  239 

her  duty  with  a  vigilance  worthy  to  be  coupled 
with  a  larger  degree  of  wisdom.  Darting  out 
from  the  pantry  or  the  little  kitchen  whenever 
she  heard  the  light  foot  on  the  stairs,  or 
through  the  hall,  she  would  "  Hem !  oh, 
Miriam  ! "  only  to  find  that  she  was  talking  to 
silent  walls. 

At  last  she  cornered  her  in  the  little  back 
entry,  where  it  was  impossible  to  pass  each 
other,  unless  both  were  inclined  to  accommo- 
date and  make  room.  Besides,  Miriam  had 
a  large  pitcher  of  water  in  her  hand,  and  was 
more  occupied  in  a  careful  watching  of  her 
steps  than  the  guard  she  had  preserved  over 
the  enemy's  movements. 

"Miriam,"  said  little  Miss  Scarritt  in  an 
awful  whisper,  while  her  little  eyes  roved 
anxiously  all  over  the  young  face,  "  I'm  con- 
cerned for  you  !  Why  don't  you  come  out  on 
the  Lord's  side  ?  Don't  you  know  if  this 
revival  goes  by,  you  may  never  get  brought 
into  the  kingdom  ?  " 

All  the  rosy  flush  dying  out  to  extreme 
paleness  ought  to  have  warned  her,  if  the 
indignant  blue  eyes,  roused  out  of  their  habitual 
gentleness,  did  not.  But  the  little  dressmaker, 


240  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

intent  on  doing  '  her  whole  duty,  and  "  speak- 
ing for  the  Lord "  boldly,  saw  nothing,  and 
essayed  again  : 

"We're  all  a  watchin'  you,  an'  expectin'  you 
to  come  forward." 

"  Let  me  alone ! "  came  in  one  burst ;  but 
that  was  enough. 

Little  Miss  Scarritt  skipped  to  one  side,  to 
see  a  dissolving  view  of  the  young  girl's  figure 
along  the  hall ;  and  then  Miss  Judith's  door 
shut  smartly  with  a  loud  clap. 

"  How  did  she  dare ! "  cried  Miriam,  her 
cheeks  all  aflame,  and  her  eyes  flashing.  And 
she  set  down  her  pitcher  on  the  table  with 
force  that  proved  its  strength,  and  threw  out 
a  good  share  of  the  contents. 

Miss  Judith  looked  up  quickly. 

"Miriam,"  she  said,  "don't  try  to  tell  now. 
Take  time  to  think." 

"O  aunt — Judith — aunt  Judith!"  cried  the 
girl,  all  her  heart  in  her  voice.  And,  rushing 
across  the  room,  she  threw  herself  on  the  floor, 
and  laid  her  head  in  the  lap  that  had  shel- 
tered so  many  careless  hours  of  her  childhood, 
now  the  refuge  in  her  first  knowledge  of  her 
soul-cravings. 


PARSON  WHITTAKER.  241 

Aunt  Judith's  only  answer  was  a  gentle  pass- 
ing of  the  firm  hand  over  the  bowed  head. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  sobbed  the 
muffled  voice.  "  I've  been  so  wretched  all  day — 
and  then  she  began  at  me." 

"I  know,  dear;"  aunt  Judith  was  praying 
for  words  or  silence — just  what  the  Lord  would 
have. 

"And  I  don't  believe  I'll  ever  be  saved  now." 

The  voice  had  something  so  inexpressibly  sad, 
beyond  the  words,  ringing  through  it,  that 
aunt  Judith  could  no  longer  keep  still. 

Miriam,"    she    said,    holding    her    close,    "do 
you  doubt  your  Maker  ?  " 

N-no,"    came    faintly   in   the   midst   of   sobs ; 
"only—" 

"Only  what?"  asked  aunt  Judith,  with  a 
prayer  for  wisdom. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  do  want,"  cried  the 
girl.  Then  the  sobs  grew  very  faint,  till  they 
ceased  altogether. 

"Aunt  Judith,"  she  said  timidly,  "do  you 
think — the  Lord — will  let  me  come — as  far  as 
I  can — and  help  me  to  love  him  more?" 

"I  think  he  will,"  said  aunt  Judith  solemnly. 

"Then   I  will  come!"    cried    Miriam,  lifting  a 


2J2  THE  PETTinOXE  NAME. 

face  so  radiantly  joyful  that  aunt  Judith  saw 
the  work  was  done.  "  I  thought  I'd  got  to 
wait  until  I  could  say  that  I  loved  him  more 
than  every  thing  else  in  the  whole  world.  I 
knew  I  didn't  —  not  more  than  I  loved  father 
and  mother,  and  you  and  Tom  and  the  rest. 
And  I  thought  it  was  wicked  to  ask  him  any 
thing,  until  I  could  say  that  I  loved  him  best; 
and  so  I  didn't  dare  to  pray.  But  if  he  will 
help  me — O  aunt  Judy!" 

She  clasped  her  neck  with  young,  strong 
arms,  and  laid  her  face  against  the  tender, 
sympathizing  bosom,  while  she  kept  repeating 
over  and  over,  "  O  aunt  Judy !  " 

"Are  you  very  sure  that  you  do  not  love 
him  best  ? "  asked  Miss  Judith  after  a  pause. 
"  Would  you  give  him  up,  Miriam  ? " 

"  Oh !  "  "The  young  girl  looked  straight  into 
the  eyes  that  sought  her  own  so  lovingly. 
"  Never,  aunt  Judith !  I  would  give  up  every 
thing  in  this  world  to  be  his ! " 

"  Will  you  believe  him  if  he  tells  you  that 
you  are  his,  Miriam  ? "  asked  her  aunt  search- 
ingly. 

"If  he  tells  me  so;    yes." 

Aunt   Judith   took   her  hand,  and,  leading  her 


PARSON  WHITTAKER.  243 

over  to  the  big  bed,  knelt  down  with  her  by 
its  side. 

"Give,  O  Lord,"  she  prayed,  "such  a  reve- 
lation to  this  child  of  thine  all-sufficient  love 
that  she  shall  not  stop  to  question  her  love  to 
thee,  but  shall  gladly  surrender  herself  to  that 
love,  to  be  saved  by  the  blood  of  Christ.  Show 
her  thy  power ;  that  thou  hast  accepted  her, 
telling  her  to  take  this  new  life,  and  obey 
Thee  by  believing  it  has  been  already  begun 
in  her  heart.  For  Christ's  sake.  Amen." 

Miriam  raised  her  face  from  the  bed  where 
she  had  buried  it.  The  Lord  had  claimed  his 
own,  and  marked  her  with  his  peace. 


244  THE  PETTIBOXE  NAME. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    GOOD    WORK    GOES    ON. 

MEETINGS  for  prayer  were  continued 
through  the  weeks  that  followed,  with 
no  abatement  of  interest.  The  whole  commu- 
nity was  aroused ;  and,  too  many  in  number 
for  the  conference-room,  the  people  thronged 
into  the  old  church  with  anxious,  determined 
faces  that  spoke  of  souls  awakened  to  their 
duty. 

The  meetings  that  began  in  earnest,  humble 
supplications,  now  had  sounding  through  them 
the  note  of  praise  out  of  glad  hearts  and 
voices.  For  from  almost  every  household  had 
one  or  more  been  snatched  as  brands  from 
the  fire  and  marked  by  the  Lord  as  his  loving 
friends. 

Young  and  old,  rich  and  poor,  prominent  and 
humble  —  thay  had  all  come  from  their  different 
homes  in  that  old  hill-town  to  testify  before 


THE  GOOD  WORK  GOES  ON.  245 

any  who  might  hear,  of  their  love  for  their 
Saviour ;  of  their  resolve  to  follow  henceforth 
in  the  way  he  should  lead. 

It  had  ceased  to  be  a  surprise  now  when 
any  one,  even  if  heretofore  regarded  as  a  hope- 
less case,  arose  to  tremblingly  ask  for  prayers, 
or  to  announce  in  glad,  grateful  words,  that 
the  work  was  done.  No  matter  who  found 
their  feet  to  testify  boldly  for  Christ,  God- 
speeds in  every  thankful  breast  were  unmixed 
with  wonder. 

Many  young  souls  were  brought  within  the 
fold  at  this  blessed  time,  rilling  the  heart  of 
the  good  pastor  who  had  yearned  over  them, 
and  would  not  let  them  go,  with  the  deepest 
gratitude.  And  as  he  thought  how  much,  by 
thus  coming  early,  they  were  saved  life-long 
regret  for  the  loss  of  active  service  in  the 
glorious  cause,  he  could  not  restrain  himself, 
but  gave  them  such  a  glimpse  of  his  sympathy 
and  love  as  they  had  never  dreamed  existed. 
And  the  young  people  flocked  to  inquire  the 
way  of  life. 

It  occasioned  no  surprise,  therefore,  when 
Miriam  Pettibone,  slender  and  fair,  stood  up  in 
her  seat  one  evening,  and,  with  a  glad  voice, 


246  THE  PETT1BONE  NAME. 

in  simple  language  declared  her  love  for  her 
Saviour.  And  Deacon  Badger  covered  his  face, 
that  no  one  but  the  Lord  might  be  witness  to 
his  first  joy,  when  his  granddaughter  Lucy  fol- 
lowed —  his  Lucy,  gentle  and  lovely,  now  accept- 
ing the  grace  that  alone  could  make  her  beau- 
tiful, and  enrolling  herself  a  child  of  God. 

If  the  people  had  ever  wearied  of  their  pas- 
tor's ministrations,  they  eagerly  hung  upon  his 
lips  now.  If  they  had  forgotten  somewhat  their 
first  love,  they  simply  reverenced  him  now, 
and  could  not  show  him  their  love  enough.  But 
he  went  around  among  them  in  simple  fashion 
—  with  his  eye  fixed  on  the  Cross,  and  his 
heart  full  of  Christ  —  so  that  he  felt  neither 
weary  nor  self-conscious  in  the  labors  devolving 
upon  him. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Beebe  came  over  often  to 
help  him  as  the  weeks  swept  by,  for  those  who 
had  set  their  faces  heavenward  now  wanted  to 
have  their  hands  employed  for  their  Master. 
Like  little  children,  many  came,  who  were  old 
and  gray-headed  in  ways  of  unbelief  and  sin, 
begging  in  touching  accents  that  they  might 
have  some  chance  to  work  for  God  while  yet 
any  time  remained  to  them  on  earth.  Young 


THE  GOOD  WORK  GOES  ON.  247 

men  and  women  were  to  be  interested  in  the 
beginning  of  their  Christian  course,  and  leave 
no  place  where  the  tempter  could  creep  in 
through  unoccupied  hands.  It  required  a  wise 
judgment  and  much  tact,  to  mete  out  to  each 
the  portions  in  the  good  work ;  to  stimulate 
some,  to  restrain  others,  to  encourage  all.  But 
the  baptism  of  the  Spirit  upon  .the  heart  of  the 
pastor,  left  unsupplied  no  needed  grace  for  his 
difficult  work. 

Miriam  at  once  presented  herself  in  her  pas- 
tor's study,  with  a  heart  full  of  longing  to  show 
her  love  to  her  Saviour  in  active  work,  no  matter 
what,  no  matter  where,  if  only  the  right  work 
should  be  pointed  out  as  hers  to  take  up. 

She  seemed  to  have  grown  suddenly  from  a 
child  to  a  woman.  Always  thoughtful  and  ma- 
ture, she  now  gave  evidence  of  a  suddenly 
developed  power,  that  made  her  valuable  as  a 
Christian  helper  and  leader  to  all  her  young 
friends. 

"  My  child,  you  must  go  into  the  Sunday- 
school  as  a  teacher,"  said  Mr.  Whittaker  ear- 
nestly ;  "  there  is  that  class  of  boys  from  the 
South  Farm's  district  :  that  is  the  very  place 
for  you." 


248  THE  PETTIBOXE  NAME. 

"  I  will  take  it,"  said  Miriam,  soberly  weighing 
all  the  responsibility,  but  with  never  a  thought 
after  that  question  was  settled,  of  refusing. 

"And  we  must  find  more  work  for  her  to 
do,"  said  the  minister,  with  a  glad  smile  to  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Beebe  who  had  come  over  for 
an  hour  or  two  of  assistance.  "  For,  Miriam," 
he  said,  turning  back  to  her,  "a  heart  as  full 
of  joy  as  yours,  will  consecrate  every  power  to 
your  Master." 

"  There  are  the  old  ladies  at  the  Poor-farm," 
said  Mr.  Beebe  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  only  throw 
it  out  as  a  suggestion ;  perhaps  you  won't 
approve." 

"Just  the  thing,"  said  Mr.  Whittaker  thank- 
fully. "  Miriam,  here  is  blessed  work  for  you, 
to  minister  to  those  poor  souls  up  there  on 
Beacon  Hill.  You  can  go  out  there  as  often  as 
you  like,  and  sing  your  hymns,  that  now  will 
be  sung  with  Spirit  to  the  Lord,  and  read  and 
pray.  Take  some  of  your  young  friends  with 
you.  You  can  do  twice  as  much  good  as  I  can, 
whom  they  see  so  often.  Fresh  young  Chris- 
tians will  be  very  messengers  of  mercy  up 
there." 

"I    should     like    to,"    said    Miriam,  with    kin- 


THE  GOOD  WORK  GOES  ON.  249 

dling  eyes,  "  oh,  so  much,  Mr.  Whittaker !  I 
thought  of  those  old  ladies,  but  I  didn't  know 
as  you  would  think  I  was  fit  to  teacr?  them," 
she  added  humbly. 

"  Any  soul  taught  as  yours  has  been,  my 
child,"  said  her  pastor  solemnly,  "  can  go  there 
gladly  with  the  message." 

And  so  Miriam  put  all  her  young  soul  into 
the  work  that  now  engaged  her  time  and 
thought,  and  with  the  development  of  her 
Christian  graces,  and  faculties  for  the  work  of 
the  Lord's  kingdom,  came  a  rapid  unfolding 
of  all  her  mental  powers  as  well.  So  much  so, 
that  her  father  and  mother  and  aunt  Judith 
looked  on  and  wondered. 

It  seemed  such  a  blessed  work  for  her  young 
strength.  And  she  entered  into  it  so  gladly, 
keeping  all  her  fresh,  unconscious  youth,  with 
the  added  dignity  of  Christian  womanhood. 

Tom's  letters  were  full  of  an  overflowing 
gladness  that  welcomed  this  dearly-loved  sister 
to  a  newer  sympathy  and  love.  For  the  boy 
had,  with  sturdy,  whole-souled  aim,  endeavored 
to  live  as  a  boy  should  who  fears  God. 

He   didn't     say   much    about     his     trials,     but 


250  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

aunt  Judith  looking  closely  through  the  letters, 
read  between  the  lines  and  detected  the  longing 
for  home  and  home  sympathy.  And  from  little 
things  dropped  here  and  there  in  the  midst 
of  the  boyish  scrawls,  there  peeped  out  hints 
of  the  hard  times  he  was  having  over  his  two 
promises. 

"But  I  kept  them,  aunt  Judith,"  he  declared 
on  one  of  his  vacations ;  "  yes,  I  did  !  "  And 
his  blue  eyes  flashed  with  boyish  enthusiasm 
and  boyish  triumph. 

Aside  from  that  avowal,  Tom  did  not  in- 
cline to  talk  further  upon  the  subject,  only 
there  was  an  added  tenderness  in  his  manner 
toward  his  aunt  —  an  oftener  seeking  her  soci- 
ety. 

Each  time  that  he  went  back  to  school,  Miss 
Judith  saw  something  of  a  new  purpose  to 
which  his  strong,  self-reliant  nature  was  devoted. 
A  purpose  to  waste  neither  the  time  nor 
money  expended,  in  the  achievement  of  an 
education. 

"Beats  all  how  Tom  does  study,"  said  his 
father  proudly,  on  one  of  these  occasions.  "  I 
have  to  tell  him  to  give  us  some  of  his  time  ; 
for  he's  brought  home  his  boous,  for  a  look 


THE  GOOD   WORK  GOES  ON.  251 

now  and  then,  he  says.  I'm  afraid  he'll  know 
too  much." 

"  Don't  you  worry,  brother,"  said  Miss  Judith 
composedly.  "As  long  as  Tom  is  in  such 
perfect  health,  and  plays  as  heartily  as  he  works, 
there  isn't  much  to  be  over-troubled  about. 
He'll  need  every  bit  of  the  education  he's 
getting ;  for  the  world  has  moved  on  some 
since  you  and  I  were  young,  John." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mr.  John  Pettibone,  who 
wouldn't  have  had  him  stop  for  any  thing. 
"Well,  I'm  glad  to  have  father's  money  used 
in  that  way.  For  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that, 
the  boy  would  never  have  had  the  chance." 

"I  am  glad,  too,"  said  Miss  Judith  simply. 
"If  it  hadn't  been!"  rang  through  and  through 
her  heart.  "If  it  hadn't  been!" 

And  she  often  looked  up  to  the  old  home- 
stead on  the  hill,  rilled  with  merry,  loving 
and  lovable  children  who  came  very  near  being 
bitter  and  wretched  in  the  poverty  of  the 
little  tucked-up  house  down  in  the  valley,  and 
said,  down  deep  in  her  heart  :  "  Pa  gives  it  all 
his  blessing!"  While  the  old-fashioned  portrait 
that  now  hung  over  her  little  low  mantel  in 
the  widow  Scarritt's  humble  home,  seemed  to 


252  THE  PETTIEONE  NAME. 

brood   over   her  and  her    life  with  a  tenderness 
almost    divine. 

One  morning  she  was  thinking  it  all  over, 
a  happy  feeling  at  heart,  and  a  tender-  smile 
playing  around  her  lips,  when  little  Miss 
Scarritt  rushed  in  with  consternation  on  every 
feature. 

"Judith,"  she  cried,  "it's  no  use!  Now,  I 
hope  that  man  is  satisfied ! "  she  exclaimed, 
sinking  tragically  into  the  first  chair  she  could 
find.  "  Why  don't  you  say  something  ? "  she 
asked  impatiently. 

"  Because  I  am  waiting  to  be  told  what  to 
say,"  replied  Miss  Judith  smilingly.  "  It's 
coming ;  I  see  it  almost  trembling  on  your 
lips.  Now,  then,  Samantha!" 

"  I'm  so  angry  at  Doctor  Pilcher,"  cried  the 
little  dressmaker  in  a  gust.  "Well,  he'll  have 
to  suffer  in  his  mind  to  the  end  of  his  days, 
to  pay  for  it.  To  think  of  losin'  Deacon  Badger, 
Ju-" 

"  Samantha,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  exclaimed 
Miss  Judith,  starting  from  her  chair  to  seize 
her  friend's  arm. 

"  Why,  Deacon  Badger's  sick,  "  said  Miss 
Scarritt.  "Of  course  you  couldn't  expect  him 


THE  GOOD  WORK  GOES  ON.  .        253 

to  hold  out  forever,  worried  an'  tormented  to 
death  as  he's  been.  An'  Mr.  Folinsbee's  down- 
stairs ;  he's  come  after  you.  He  stepped  in 
there,  an'  they  sent  him  right  over.  That's 
what  I've  come  up  for,  to  tell  you.  " 

The  little  dressmaker  was  saying  the  con- 
cluding sentences  to  the  walls  and  the  furni- 
ture, Miss  Judith  being  rapidly  on  her  way 
toward  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  keeping- 
room. 

"As  I  was  saying  —  hem!  it's  the  awfullest 
fix,  for  Doctor  Pilcher,  of  course,  won't  come, 
an'  there  ain't  no  other  doctor  nigher'n  Free- 
burg,  an'  —  O  Miss  Pet'bone,  how  d'ye  do  ?  " 

"  Deacon  Badger's  sick,  "  said  the  little 
widow,  distress  and  animation  contending  for 
possession  of  her  withered  face.  "Jest  as  I 
thought  'twould  be,  Judith.  I'm  glad  he's  so 
forehanded  he  can  lay  by  an'  be  sick  ;  but  it's 
a  dretful  thing  to  go  down  to  the  grave  havin' 
folks  say  you  swore,  an' " 

"  They  sent  you  for  me,  Mr.  Folinsbee  ?  '•' 
asked  Miss  Judith  quickly,  interrupting  the 
stream. 

"They  said  you  was  to  come's  quick  as  you 
could, "  said  Mr.  Folinsbee  from  his  perch  on 


254  THE  PETTinONE  XAME. 

the  extreme  edge  of  a  stiff  hair-cloth  chair,  to 
which  he  was  clinging  for  support  in  his  ex- 
citement over  Mrs.  Scarritt's  funereal  words. 
"  I  don't  b'lieve  he's  goin'  to  die, "  he  added, 
gaining  a  little  strength. 

"  You  can't  never  tell, "  said  Mrs.  Scarritt 
impressively ;  "  when  a  man  of  his  age  is  took, 
it's  apt  to  go  bad  with  him.  " 

Mr.  Folinsbee,  his  temporary  relief  gone, 
now  had  no  words  to  offer;  but,  as  if  fully 
expecting  by  right  of  age  his  own  name  to 
be  called  next,  he  sat  in  silent  misery. 

"  I'll  get  my  things  and  be  over  directly,  " 
said  Miss  Judith. 

"Here's  your  bonnet,  "  said  Miss  Scarritt  at 
her  elbow,  "  an'  your  shawl ;  I  brought  'em 
down.  There  now,  go  along,  an'  be  the  com- 
fort that  only  you  can  be,  Judith.  "  She  almost 
thrust  her  from  the  room,  giving  two  or  three 
pats  to  express  what  she  couldn't  speak. 

While  all  this  was  proceeding  in  the  keep- 
ing-room, there  was  a  small  agitation  in  the 
diminutive  flower-bed  by  the  side  of  the  lilac 
bushes  and  just  beneath  the  high,  old-fashioned 
windows.  An  agitation  that  presently  resolved 


THE  GOOD   WORK  GOES  ON.  255 

itself  into  perfect  quiet,  only  interrupted  by  a 
deal  of  hard  breathing  as  certain  plans  came 
.to  maturity  in  the  depths  of  an  extremely  fer- 
tile brain. 

"  Well ! "  Bobby  Jane  gathered  herself  up 
from  the  damp  ground  where  she  had  been 
grubbing  in  a  delicious  sense  of  freedom,  and 
wiping  her  grimy  little  hands  on  her  pink 
calico  apron  two  or  three  times,  she  cast  a 
loving  glance  on  a  mangy  stick  adorned  with 
a  few  leaves  at  the  top,  that  she  had,  with 
praiseworthy  diligence,  finally  persuaded  to 
stand  upright  in  the  very  centre  of  Miss 
Samantha's  small  collection  of  flowers.  Then 
she  gave  a  decisive  nod  to  her  stubby  head 
and  started  for  the  brown  gate. 

"  I  know  every  speck  of  the  way,  "  she  said 
to  herself,  turning  down  the  dusty  road,  "just 
as  easy  as  not. " 

Trudge,  trudge !  Strange  to  say,  nobody  hap- 
pened along  just  then,  so  Bobby  Jane  pur- 
sued her  reflections  and  her  course  according 
to  her  own  sweet  will,  pattering  on,  the  strings 
of  her  small  shoes  trailing  off  dismally  in  the 
rear,  somewhat  impeding  locomotion.  However, 
as  she  was  accustomed  to  such  slight  hindrances, 


256  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

she  kept,  on  stolidly,  beguiling  the  tedium  of 
the  way  with  scraps  of  conversation,  which,  for 
want  of  a  better  listener,  she  held  with  her- 
self. 

"  My  good,  nice  Deacon  Badger  shan't  die ! " 
she  exclaimed  energetically,  and  switching  off 
the  tops  of  all  the  daisies  that  came  in  her 
way.  "An'  Doctor  Pilcher  shall  come  an'  cure 
him,  same's  he  did  me ;  so  there  !  I'll  go  for 
him  myself.  " 

By  this  time  she  had  made  a  fine  distance, 
and  presently  turning  another  corner,  which, 
fortunately  for  her,  happened  to  be  the  right 
one,  she  struck  out  briskly  for  Franklin.  And 
now  she  kept  a  bright  outlook  for  all  kinds 
of  travellers,  her  sharp  little  eyes  serving  her 
a  good  turn  as  faithful  watchmen.  At  sight 
of  any  thing  movable  along  the  highway,  she 
would,  as  usual  in  like  emergencies,  hop  nim- 
bly over  the  wayside  fence,  or  behind  some 
kind,  protecting  bush,  until  she  could  resume 
her  expedition  with  no  danger  of  being  sent 
back.  And  so  with  delightful  emotions  swell- 
ing her  small  breast,  Bobby  Jane  trudged  on 
to  victory. 


BOBBY  JANE  COMES  TO  THE  FROXT.  257 


CHAPTER   XV. 

BOBBY  JANE    COMES    TO    THE    FRONT. 

MIRIAM  sat  by  the  window,  busy  with  her 
sewing,  her  mind  and  heart  full  of 
Deacon  Badger.  A  voice  outside  roused  her. 

"  Send  Bobby  Jane  home  ! "  it  called.  "  Mother 
wants  her." 

Miriam  dropped  the  ruffle  with  its  fine  cam- 
bric needle  hanging  to  it,  to  put  out  her  head 
with  its  shining  waves  of  soft  hair. 

It  was  Ira. 

"  Why,  Bobby  Jane  isn't  here,"  she  said  in 
gentle  surprise.  "  I  haven't  seen  her  all  this 
morning." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  have ! "  replied  Ira  stoutly,  not 
in  the  least  meaning  to  contradict,  only  having 
once  become  possessed  of  an  idea,  it  remained 
in  his  mind,  being  uprooted  only  by  superhu- 
man effort.  "She  came  over  here  about  two 
hours  ago  with  a  flower  she  said  she  was  going 


258  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

to  plant  as  a  surprise  for  aunt  Judy,  and  now 
mother  wants  her." 

"  Well,  I  haven't  seen  her  to-day,"  said 
Miriam.  "  Don't  be  worried,  Ira.  I  guess  she's 
run  down  to  Deacon  Badger's.  You  know  he's 
very  sick,  and  they've  sent  for  aunt  Judith, 
and  maybe  Bobby  Jane  saw  her  go  and  fol- 
lowed along." 

"  Well,  I'll  go  there  too,  then,"  said  Ira 
faithfully,  "  'cause  mother  wants  her." 

Miriam  nodded  and  smiled  to  the  stout  little 
figure  as  long  as  it  was  in  sight,  then  took 
in  her  head,  and  fell  to  sewing  again. 

But  presently  Ira  came  running  back  breath- 
lessly. 

"She  ain't  there  —  oh  no,  she  ain't!"  he 
shouted  under  the  window,  in  the  extremest 
consternation.  "An'  mother  wants  her." 

This  time  Miriam  threw  aside  her  work  and 
ran  down-stairs. 

"An*  aunt  Judy  says  you  an'  I  are  to  look 
all  'around  here,"  he  panted,  "  carefully.  That's 
what  she  said,  for  Bobby  Jane  may  have  got 
into  trouble." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Miriam,  more  startled  than 
she  cared  to  have  her  little  brother  see  ;  "  you 


BOBBY  JANE  COMES  TO  THE  FRONT.  259 

take  the  woodshed  and  the  orchard,  and  I'll 
look  all  around  here.  But,  in  the  first  place, 
I'll  ask  Mrs.  Scarritt  if  she  has  seen  her  this 
morning." 

A  careful  interviewing  of  the  little  widow 
failed  of  any  comfort, 

"  I  hain't  cast  an  eye  on  her  this  mortal 
morning,"  she  said  decidedly,  looking  up  from 
the  pan  of  beans  she  was  shelling;  "an*  it's 
been  a  long  time  sence  I  could  say  that." 

Miriam,  feeling  that  it  was  now  high  time 
to  be  expeditious,  flew  over  to  the  neighbors, 
making  inquiries  as  she  went  of  everybody  she 
met.  No  one  had  seen  Bobby  Jane. 

Ira  came  back  from  his  search  crying. 

"We  will  run  over  home,"  said  Miriam,  wip- 
ing off  the  tears  from  their  dismal  race  down 
the  chubby  cheeks.  "  Dear  me,  Ira,  don't  cry ! 
I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  Bobby  Jane  had  gone 
home  first,  and  should  come  out  to  laugh  at 
us." 

But  the  stream  of  Ira's  woe  flowed  on  with- 
out interruption,  as  Miriam  took  his  hand  and 
together  they  went  rapidly  homeward. 

Bobby  Jane  not  being  there,  could  not  very 
well  "  come  out  and  laugh "  at  them ;  and  in 


200  THE  PETT1BONE  NAME. 

five  minutes  the  little  distracted  mother  and 
the  wailing  children  were  flying  hither  and 
thither,  hunting  wherever  there  was  the  least 
hope  of  finding  the  stray  child. 

It  soon  became  noised  abroad  that  "  Bobby 
Jane  Pettibone  was  lost."  Everybody  lent  a 
helping  hand  in  the  search,  and  turned  out  in 
generous  numbers,  ransacking  all  places  near 
and  far  wherever  she  would  be  likely  to  hide. 

Just  at  this  time  a  very  tired,  and  thor- 
oughly demoralized  little  figure,  who,  by  dint 
of  persistent  inquiries  along  the  way  for  "Doctor 
Pilcher's  house,"  had  at  last  stumbled  on  to  her 
destination,  and  turned  in  at  the  old  carriage- 
drive  leading  up  to  the  physician's  back  door. 

A  cross  old  woman  who  stood  by  the  well, 
engaged  in  drawing  up  a  bucket,  said  sharply, 
"  If  you  want  the  Doctor,  as  I  s'pose  you  do, 
go  'round  to  the  green  door  in  front." 

"  Yes,"  said  Bobby  Jane,  "  I  do  want  the 
Doctor." 

So  she  dragged  her  dusty  little  shoes  slowly 
around  the  house,  until  they  carried  her  to 
the  place  directed. 

Her  vigorous  raps  soon  brought,  much  to 
her  delight,  Doctor  Pilcher  himself,  who,  fail- 


BOBBY  JANE  COMES  TO  THE  FRONT.          261 

ing  to  recognize  his  quondam  patient  in  her 
present  plight,  bade  her  come  into  his  office  — 
a  queer  little  room  with  funny  old  furniture, 
but  presenting  only  one  idea  to  Bobby  Jane's 
mind.  She  saw  nothing  but  the  long  shelves 
reaching  up  to  the  ceiling  on  two  sides  of  the 
small  room,  filled  as  far  as  her  eyes  could 
compass,  with  bottles  of  various  sizes  and 
shapes. 

"  Oh ! "  exclaimed  Bobby  Jane. 

And  forgetting  her  errand  and  her  tired 
condition,  she  sank  down  on  the  broad,  chintz- 
covered  sofa,  and  gazed  to  her  heart's  con- 
tent. 

"  Who  sent  you  ? "  asked  the  Doctor  abruptly, 
and  bustling  around  for  his  medicine-case. 

Bobby  Jane,  at  this  recalled  to  the  impor- 
tance of  her  position,  tore  off  her  gaze  from  the 
fascinating  bottles.  "  No  one, "  she  said,  fasten- 
ing her  black  eyes  on  the  Doctor's  face. 

"  Didn't  anybody  send  you  ? "  asked  Doctor 
Pilcher,  whirling  around  on  her  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Bobby  Jane,  swinging  her  tired 
feet,  that  now  began  to  ache  terribly ;  "  I  came 
al-1  alone,  I  did,  a  purpose  to  see  you, "  draw- 


262  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

ing  herself  up  to  defend  the  honor  of  her  posi- 
tion as  originator  of  the  expedition. 

"  Oh,  you  did,  "  said  the  little  Doctor  ;  "  well, 
I  suppose  you  have  a  sore  throat  or  something 
of  that  sort.  Come  here,  child,  and  let  me  look 
down.  " 

"  Oh  no,  I  haven't,  either !  "  declared  Bobby 
Jane  indignantly,  who  always  regarded  any 
allusion  to  a  weak  state  of  health  as  a  per- 
sonal insult.  "  I  haven't  got  nothing  at  all — 
not  a  single  thing;  I  came  to  see  you!" 

"  Bless  me ! "  ejaculated  Doctor  Pilcher. 
Nevertheless  he  was  greatly  pleased,  the  audac- 
ity of  the  thing  capturing  him  at  once.  That 
he,  whom  all  children  let  severely  alone,  should 
be  sought  out  in  this  winning  way,  presented 
all  the  charms  of  a  new  idea,  and  a  genial 
smile  beamed  from  every  line  of  his  face. 
"  So,  so,"  he  cried,  unable  to  conceal  his 
satisfaction ;  "  well,  if  that  is  the  case,  I  sup- 
pose I  must  set  to  work  to  entertain  you. 
Hey  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Bobby  Jane,  who  didn't  know 
in  the  least  what  "  entertain "  meant  ;  but 
presuming  from  his  social  manner  that  some- 
thing pleasant  was  contemplated,  she  repeated 


BOBBY  JANE  COMES  TO  THE  FRONT.         263 

/'  Yes,"  at  the  same  time  giving  a  restful 
stretch  of  her  weary  little  frame  over  the  old 
chintz  sofa. 

"  And  I  can't  think  of  any  thing  better  for 
a  tired  little  girl  than  cookies,"  exclaimed 
the  little  Doctor  in  his  gayest  fashion. 

At  the  word  cookies  Bobby  Jane  sat 
straight  up.  Here  was  something  she  could 
understand.  "  Oh  yes,"  she  cried,  with  a  laugh 
of  glee;  "I  like  them."  And  clasping  her  small 
hands,  "  Yes,  yes,  do  give  me  some,  please !  " 

"  So  I  thought,"  said  Doctor  Pilcher  with  a 
nod.  And  stepping  to  the  door  he  called 
loudly :  "  Mrs.  Johnson,  a  plate  of  cookies 
this  way." 

The  sour-faced  woman  presently  appearing 
with  the  article  called  for,  which  she  slammed 
down  on  the  office  table,  muttering  something 
about  "  not  goin'  to  kill  herself  bakin'  for 
children,"  Doctor  Pilcher  put  into  the  pink 
apron  such  a  liberal  supply  as  afforded  his 
small  visitor  intense  delight. 

"  So  you  came  to  see  me  ? "  repeated  the 
little  man,  standing  off  to  watch  her  eat,  with 
the  greatest  satisfaction. 

Bobby    Jane,    whose    pangs    of    hunger    were 


264  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

now  somewhat  assauged,  felt  drawn  to  a  little 
conversation.  So,  between  her  cooky  bites,  she 
signified  her  willingness  to  talk. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  nodding  her  small  head ; 
"I  came  an  awful  long  ways;  I  did." 

"  Will  you  stay  and  be  my  little  girl  ? " 
asked  Doctor  Pilcher  in  his  most  persuasive 
accents. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  can't ! "  replied  Bobby  Jane  in 
great  astonishment.  "  I'm  mamma's  an'  papa's 
girl." 

"Well,  if  mamma  and  papa  will  give  you 
up,  will  you  come  and  stay  with  me?"  laughingly 
pursued  the  Doctor,  to  make  conversation. 

"  Oh,  no ! "  said  Bobby  Jane,  shaking  her 
head  in  the  most  decided  fashion ;  "  then  I'm 
aunt  Judy's — " 

Doctor  Pilcher  started  and  stared. 

Bobby  Jane  huddled  a  small  heap  of  crumbs 
into  one  corner  of  her  apron,  and  leaned 
forward,  feeling  it  now  quite  time  to  enter 
upon  business. 

"  Won't  you  come  an'  see  Deacon  Badger  ? " 
she  asked  anxiously ;  "  my  nice,  dear,  good 
Deacon  Badger.  Do  come  !  " 

If     she     had     not     been    so    intent     on     her 


BOBBY  JANE  COMES  TO  THE  FRONT.  265 

errand,  the  Doctor's  face  would  have  frightened 
her.  As  it  was,  she  could  only  continue  to 
beg  in  a  wheedling  way,  and  throwing  aside 
her  cooky,  "Will  you  —  will  you?" 

"  What  in  the  world  brought  you  here  ? " 
fairly  roared  Doctor  Pilcher,  taking  two  or 
three  steps  toward  the  chintz  sofa,  then  fall- 
ing back  to  stare  at  her  calm  complacency. 

"  I  walked,"  repeated  Bobby  Jane,  indignant 
that  her  word  should  be  called  in  question. 
Then  returning  to  the  charge,  "Deacon  Bad- 
ger's a  dyin'  —  they  all  said  so  —  if  you  don't 
come  an'  cure  him." 

"  Deacon  Badger  dying  !  " 

The  room  was  in  an  instant  so  still  that 
the  dropping  of  a  pin  would  have  been  a 
positive  relief.  In  after  years,  Bobby  Jane 
recalled  the  white  face  that  bent  over  her, 
striking  fear  to  her  childish  heart  as  the 
little  Doctor  grasped  her  arm,  saying,  in  such 
a  tone  of  agony  that  she  stopped  all  her  tears 
to  listen, — 

"  Tell  me,  child,  what  you  mean !  " 

"  He's  sick,"  said  Bobby  Jane,  with  big  eyes 
on  his  white  face,  forgetting  her  fear.  "  An* 
they're  afraid  to  send  for  you.  Do  come  ! "  and 


266  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

with  an  instinct  that  the  man  before  her 
was  suffering  terribly,  she  flung  her  fat  little 
arms  around  his  neck  and  burrowed  the  stubby 
head  as  far  as  possible  behind  the  stiff  high 
collar. 

For  one  moment  the  Doctor  held  her  close ; 
then  he  put  her  firmly,  but  gently  into  the 
sofa-corner  again.  "  Sit  perfectly  still  until  I 
come  back,"  he  said. 

Bobby  Jane  peered  up  into  his  face,  to  see 
if  there  was  any  chance  of  happily  eluding 
the  obedience  required.  But  seeing  there  noth- 
ing to  justify  her  in  the  attempt,  she  curled 
herself  up  into  a  small  heap,  to  watch  him  go 
out  of  the  room,  then  fell  to  nibbling  the 
edges  of  the  remaining  cookies  while  awaiting 
his  return,  \vhich  soon  occurred,  when  she  was 
taken  up  with  a  firm  hand,  carried  out  anoit  put 
within  the  roomy  old  gig,  the  Doctor  stepping  in 
after  her,  to  give  the  patient  horse  a  vigorous 
cut  that  started  him  energetically  toward  Bark- 
hamsted. 

"  I'm  comin'  to  see  you  again,"  announced 
Bobby  Jane  sociably,  in  the  interval  of  setting 
her  sun-bonnet  straight  after  the  jerk,  as  the 
gig  flew  over  the  stony  ground.  "  An'  I  like 


BOBBY  JANE  COMES  TO  THE  FRONT.  267 

to  ride  home,"  she  added,  pulling  down  her 
pink  apron  in  a  pleased  way. 

"  You  are  Miss  Judith  Pettibone's  little 
niece,  aren't  you  ? "  asked  the  Doctor,  turning 
his  face,  which  had  regained  none  of  its  wonted 
color,  down  on  her. 

"  No,  I  ain't  her  niece,"  declared  Bobby  Jane, 
shaking  her  head  most  decidedly ;  "  I'm  aunt 
Judy's  little  girl,  an'  she  loves  me,"  she  added, 
as  a  piece  of  information  not  to  be  forgotten. 

But  the  Doctor,  not  caring  for  conversation, 
a  silence  fell  upon  the  gig  and  its  occupants, 
only  broken  by  Bobby  Jane's  declarations  that 
she  saw  a  blackbird,  no,  two  blackbirds,  and 
her  pleadings  to  be  allowed  to  jump  out  to 
give  chase  to  a  red  squirrel  flying  over  a  stone 
wall.  These,  and  similar  diversions,  occupied 
the  time  till,  before  many  moments  had  passed, 
their  high  rate  of  speed  brought  them  in  view 
of  the  corner  to  be  turned  in  order  to  reach 
the  Pettibone  homestead. 

"  You  are  not  staying  at  your  aunt  Judith's 
now,  are  you?"  asked  Doctor  Pilcher,  drawing 
rein  here  a  moment. 

"  No,"  said  Bobby  Jane.  How  she  wished 
she  could  say  yes !  Beside  all  other  comfort, 


268  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

it     would     give     her    such    a    nice     long    ride ! 

"Well,  hop  out,  then,"  said  the  Doctor,  "and 
go  straight  home ;  as  straight  as  a  needle." 
Then  he  waited  a  moment.  "  Good-by,  child  !  " 
and  he  dropped  a  kiss  under  the  sun-bonnet 
rim  on  the  broad,  white  brow. 

Bobby  Jane  stood  quite  still,  her  feet  in  a 
clump  of  tangled  weeds,  and  regarded  the  little 
old  gig  a  moment  as  it  whirled  rapidly  off 
toward  the  village. 

"I  like  him!"  she  said  to  herself.  "He  gave 
me  cookies,  an'  he  kissed  me,  but  he  might 
a  took  me  clear  home  ;  an'  my  toes  ache  aw- 
fully ;  an'  I  wish't  I  hadn't  gone  !  " 

Doctor  Pilcher  drove  on  till  the  little  gambreled 
roof  of  the  widow  Scarritt's  cottage  came  into 
view.  Then  he  slackened  speed  a  bit,  the 
memory  of  the  merry  laugh  that  had  been 
ringing  ever  since  in  his  ears,  making  the  color 
to  surge  up  over  the  pale  cheeks. 

"I  can't  go  near  Miss  Pettibone,"  he  said, 
with  a  groan ;  "  she  thinks  so  much  of  him. 
The  time's  gone  by  for  me  to  show  myself 
there  about  this  business,  and  I  don't  want  to 
ask  any  one  else — such  a  precious  lot  of  gos- 
sips !  But  this  little  thing  looks  sensible. 


BOBBY  JANE  COMES  TO  THE  FRONT.          269 

Pshaw !    why    do    I    mind    her  ?     Here    goes ! " 

Pulling  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  he  jerked  the 
reins  so  effectually  that  the  faithful  old  horse, 
well-accustomed  to  sudden  summons,  soon  drew 
up  in  front  of  the  Scarritt  cottage.  Giving 
himself  no  time  for  further  consideration,  the 
Doctor  was  soon  passing  up  the  tiny  path,  and 
rapping  vigorously  on  the  green  door. 

Miss  Scarritt  herself  opened  the  upper  half. 
When  she  saw  who  it  was,  she  stiffened  up 
suddenly,  every  feature  of  her  face,  small  though 
it  was,  bristling  with  indignation,  till  she  resem- 
bled, as  much  as  any  thing,  a  diminutive  spar- 
row standing  on  tiptoe,  each  feather  in  battle 
array. 

"I  came  —  I  dropped  in  —  I  —  "  said  Doctor 
Pilcher  ;  then  stopped. 

As  the  little  dressmaker  said  nothing,  he  had 
to  begin  again. 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  somebody,"  he  said  hum- 
bly, then  abruptly  plunged  on.  "  Is  Deacon 
Badger  sick,  Miss  Scarritt?" 

How  he  waited  for  her  words ! 

"Did  you  s'pose  he  could  stand  every  thin'?" 
asked  Miss  Scarritt  coolly. 

The   little    man    said    nothing,  but  stood  there 


270  THE  PETT1BONE  NAME. 

with    pale   face    and    eyes    cast    on    the    ground. 

"He's  sick,"  said  Miss  Scarritt,  then,  terribly 
frightened  at  such  an  unwonted  sight,  "  an' 
they've  sent  for  you !  I've  jest  been  over 
there.  Don't  get  scared,"  she  found  herself 
adding,  while  every  feature  relaxed,  and  the 
battle-feathers  drooped. 

A  faint  gleam  of  relief  spread  like  an  autumn 
sunshine  over  the  tired,  anxious  face  before  her. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said ;  and,  yielding  to  an 
unaccountable  impulse,  he  put  out  his  hand. 

The  little  dressmaker  was  astonished  to  find 
that  she  reached  hers  over  the  half  of  the 
green  door. 

"I'd  get  down  there  as  soon  as  I  could," 
she  said  kindly,  as  he  grasped  it. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  she  shivered  through 
the  remainder  of  the  day  whenever  she  recalled 
the  expression  of  silent  misery  revealed  in 
that  one  look. 

Deacon  Badger's  household  heard  of  his 
coming  in  this  way :  One  of  the  twins,  swing- 
ing on  the  front  gate,  announced  it  to  the 
other,  who  rushed  into  the  sick  room,  shout- 
ing it  out  unreservedly. 


BOBBY  JANE  COMES  TO  THE  FRONT.  271 

The  sick  man  started  from  a  quiet  sleep, 
and  turned  on  his  pillow  excitedly.  "  Don't 
wait  a  minute!"  he  exclaimed,  "but  bring 
him  right  in  —  right  in !  Adeline,  see  that 
they  bring  him  right  in  ! " 

"  He  ain't  got  here,"  said  the  twin,  pausing 
long  enough  to  announce  this  on  a  high  key. 
"  He's  only  turned  by  the  red  school-house." 
Then  he  rushed  out  again  to  join  his  dupli- 
cate with  the  gate-swinging  proclivities. 

"  He'll  come  right  in,  husband,"  said  Mrs. 
Badger,  trembling  so  that  she  could  scarcely 
stand,  at  thought  of  the  meeting,  and  she 
bent  over  him,  smoothing  the  thin  gray  hair 
from  his  temples. 

Deacon  Badger  folded  his  hands,  and  his  lips 
moved,  though  no  sound  of  words  came  from 
them  ;  but  the  face  on  the  pillow  was  peace- 
ful beyond  expression. 

The  little  physician  came  in  with  bowed 
head  and  gentle  step,  and  going  around  the 
foot  of  the  old  four-post  bedstead,  he  stopped 
and  looked  down  into  the  face. 

"You  can't  cure  me,"  said  the  Deacon 
eagerly,  and  trying  to  raise  himself  up  further 
in  the  bed,  "  until  you  say,  '  I  forgive  you ! ' ' 


272  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"  0  pa,"  cried  his  wife,  forgetting  reconcilia- 
tion and  every  thi  ^g  but  the  fright  of  seeing 
him  excited,  "you  musn't !  Don't  you  know 
how  sick  you  are  ? "  And  she  tried  to  lay  a 
restraining  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

The  Deacon  was  laid  gently  back  again  among 
the  pillows,  but  not  by  the  hand  of  his  wife. 
All  the  while  he  was  still  repeating  restlessly, 
"  Do  you  forgive  me  ?  Do  you  forgive  me  ?  " 
an  anxious  flush  spreading  over  his  worn  and 
weary  face. 

The  first  that  they  knew,  Doctor  Pilcher  was 
on  his  knees,  and  hiding  his  face  in  the  gay 
patched  bedquilt. 

"  Oh  don't !  don't !  "  begged  the  Deacon,  try- 
ing with  his  thin  hands  to  raise  him ;  "  'twas  all 
my  fault;  I  riled  you.  Don't!  don't!" 

But  the  little  physician's  wiry,  compact  figure 
writhed  in  distress,  until  it  seemed  as  if  the 
evil  spirit  going  from  this  man  would  rend  him 
as  compensation  for  its  casting  out.  He  essayed 
to  speak,  but  the  words  would  not  come. 

"  All  my  life  my  temper  has  gotten  control 
of  me,"  at  last  he  said  bitterly,  still  not  looking 
up.  "  Now,  I  ask  forgiveness  of  you  ;  and  so,  by 
my  own  hand,  I  slay  it." 


BOBBY  JANE  COMES  TO  THE  FRONT.  273 

"We  will  forgive  each  other,"  said  the  Dea- 
con humbly;  "but  mine  was  the  greater  sin." 

"  Not  so  !  "  exclaimed  Doctor  Pilcher,  starting 
to  his  feet,  and  putting  out  his  hand  . 

"  Ain't  he  talkin'  too  much ;  an'  hadn't  he 
ought  to  have  some  med'cine  ? "  broke  in  the 
Deacon's  wife  in  a  worry,  whose  righteous  soul, 
although  rejoicing  that  the  difference  was  made 
up,  and  all  things  moving  amicably,  couldn't 
forget  that  the  Doctor  had  been  sent  for  in  a 
professional  way  ;  and  to  her  eyes,  the  time  for 
seeing  the  pills  and  powders  down  had  certainly 
more  than  arrived.  Accordingly,  she  began  to 
bustle  around  for  the  necessary  cup  and  spoon. 

"There  is  no  need  of  medicine."  Doctor  Pil- 
cher kept  his  eyes  on  the  face  before  him,  while 
his  words  were  for  her.  "  He  needs  nothing 
now  only  rest." 

"But,  Doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Badger  expostulat- 
ingly,  and  pressing  nearer  the  bed,  "don't  you 
think  you  might  give  him  somethin'  quietin'  ? 
It  seems  as  if  he  ought  to  take  some  med'cine." 

"  I  can  leave  a  little  quieting  powder,"  said 
Doctor  Pilcher,  "  if  you  wish  ;  but  it  is  not 
necessary  to  give  it,  unless  wakeful  at  night." 

He    was    feeling    the     Deacon's     pulse   as    he 


274  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

spoke,  and  his  fingers  tarried  on  the  thin  wrist, 
and  then,  as  if  loath  to  take  away  their  tender 
touch,  they  clasped  the  trembling  hand  and 
held  it  close  and  warm  for  an  instant.  The 
little  worried  wife  took  a  long  glance,  then 
sighed  in  a  relieved  way,  and  stole  softly  out, 
leaving  them  so.  But  she  cast  a  regretful  glance 
at  the  medicine-case  as  she  went 


MR    BEE  BE  ALONE  DISSATISFIED.  275 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

MR.    BEEBE    ALONE    DISSATISFIED. 

DOCTOR    PILCHER,    in     his    small    office 
that     evening,    was    not    writing    a    pre- 
scription,   but    a    short,    friendly    note.     It    ran 
thus  : 

Miss  PETTIBONE  :  — It  is  but  fair  to  inform  you  that  your  little 
niece  Bobby  Jane,  who  innocently  caused  you  so  much  worry 
several  weeks  since,  has  more  than  atoned  for  her  unconscious 
part  of  the  affair,  by  bringing  me  to  my  senses.  I  want  you  to 
know  this  of  the  child,  because  it  is  the  truth,  and  because  the 
stating  of  this  truth  may  be  some  atonement  on  my  part. 

Yours  truly, 

ALONZO  PILCHER. 

"  Now  tell  every  one  you  know,"  said  Doctor 
Pilcher  in  clear,  terse  sentences,  the  next  day 
on  his  rounds,  to  all  whom  he  met,  "that  I 
say  Deacon  Badger  is  a  grand  man.  That  he's 
treated  me  like  —  more  than  a  gentleman  —  a 
very  nobleman ;  and  that  I've  been  a  mule ! 
Start  that  story,  now,  to  chase  and  overtake 


276  THE  PETTIBOXE  NAME. 

the  other,  and  you'll  oblige  me."  After  that 
he  favored  his  gaping  audience  no  more. 

The  whole  village  was  now  in  a  turmoil. 
Those  who  had  spoken  against  the  Deacon, 
and  lent  their  tongues  and  influence  in  never 
so  small  a  measure  to  his  detriment,  were  in 
a  dreadful  position.  Deserted  by  the  little 
physician,  and  losing  favor  at  court  with  the 
minister  an  1  Church  officials,  they  were  at 
their  wits'  ends  how  to  wriggle  gracefully  back 
again  into  the  position  of  nominal  friendship 
with  the  good  old  man.  As  many  of  them 
as  could,  tried  to  assert  that  they  "hadn't 
said  'twas  so,  an'  they  didn't  really  s'pose  so." 
But  it  was  up-hill  work  to  preserve  a  brave 
front,  and  only  resulted  in  a  sickly  failure. 

The  shoemaker's  house  was  literally  deserted 
about  these  days,  Mrs.  Bassett's  back-door 
friends  going  by  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road,  which  gave  her  sufficient  time  to  pursue 
her  domestic  avocations  without  interruption, 
with  only  such  scraps  of  news  as  her  worthy  hus- 
band brought  from  the  shop.  She,  as  well  as 
every  one,  however,  could  see  Doctor  Pilcher's 
gig  going  by  every  day.  And  although  Deacon 
Badger  was  known  to  have  completely  recov- 


ME.  BEEBE  ALONE  DISSATISFIED.  277 

ered  from  his  sick  attack,  it  was  thoroughly 
understood  that  the  gig  stopped  at  the  old 
Badger  homestead,  while  its  owner  dropped  in 
to  dinner  or  to  tea,  or  for  a  chat  in  the  big 
kitchen.  Sometimes  the  chat  was  in  the 
broad  fields  of  the  Deacon's  generous  farm, 
when,  although  the  little  physician  was  over- 
run with  work,  he  would  pause  to  talk  with 
his  good  friend  on  the  other  side  of  the  stone 
wall.  Then  the  conversation  ran  merry  and 
high,  and  they  always  parted  with  a  laugh, 
a  sight  and  sound  to  be  faithfully  reported  by 
the  owners  of  closed  blinds  in  the  vicinity. 

It  was  good  to  see  Miss  Judith  Pettibone's  face 
about  these  days,  and  to  hear  her  light  laugh  — 
clear  and  happy  as  a  girl's  —  as  she  blossomed 
out,  making  every  thing  bright  around  her  in 
the  Badgers'  happy  home,  or,  kept  at  her 
peaceful  stitch,  stitching,  in  her  little  room 
looking  down  on  the  lilacs.  Life  meant  a  joy- 
ful thing  to  her  nowadays,  and  all  was  sunny, 
and  fresh,  and  beautiful. 

But  the  old  Deacon !  Rescued  from  a  haunt- 
ing dread  that  his  sin  would  keep  this  so- 
longed-for  soul  adrift  from  its  rightful  harbor 
—  a  dread  intensified  by  the  late  revival  pass- 


278  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

ing  over  without  an  apparent  emotion  being 
raised  in  Doctor  Pilcher's  breast,  for  which  he 
— Deacon  Badger — felt  himself  wholly  to  blame, 
he  now  saw  the  load  lifted;  and  while  he 
still  experienced  the  sense  of  guilt,  it  was 
forgiven  guilt,  and  he  could  no  more  help 
being  peaceful  and  happy,  than  a  bird  could 
help  flying  and  singing. 

To  be  sure  the  little  Doctor  didn't  at  once 
"come  forward"  and  press  into  the  ranks  of 
the  Church,  delighting  his  friends  and  aston- 
ishing his  enemies ;  but  he  did  tackle  his 
temper  in  downright  earnest,  waging  many  an 
hard,  terrible  battle  in  the  solitude  of  his  own 
soul.  No  one  knew  so  well  as  the  Deacon, 
the  strength  and  deadly  nature  of  these  con- 
flicts, nor  the  many  victories  that  gently 
covered  the  slain  and  cleared  up  the  smoke 
of  the  battle-field. 

The  clergymen  of  the  two  parishes  rejoiced 
in  secret  and  in  public  over  this  delightful 
state  of  things,  this  happy  termination  of  a 
most  unhappy  affair.  Of  course  the  minister 
from  Franklin  must  come  over  the  hill  more 
than  ever  now,  to  show  this  rejoicing  spirit 
and  unite  in  the  paean  of  his  clerical  brother 


MB.  BEEBE  ALONE  DISSATISFIED.  279 

and  other  good,  staunch  friends  of  the  Deacon's. 
And  so  he  fell  into  the  habit  of  dropping  in 
often  at  the  widow  Scarritt's  little  cottage ; 
at  first,  as  was  quite  natural,  to  congratulate 
Miss  Pettibone  on  the  final  result  of  her 
anxiety  concerning  her  good  old  friend,  and 
then,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  throw  out  some 
kind  suggestion  or  helpful  thought  for  the 
best  growth  of  the  young  convert  whom  Mr. 
Whittaker  had  seemed  glad  to  partially  leave 
in  his  hands.  These  talks  always  sent  the 
girl  to  her  work  with  perplexity  lightened ; 
with  hope  renewed.  For  to  Miriam,  her  min- 
ister's friend  was  hardly  second  in  regard 
to  her  pastor  himself.  Was  he  not  also  her 
spiritual  teacher  when  her  new  life  began ; 
and  did  not  his  finger,  too,  point  the  way  that 
henceforth  her  feet  should  tread  r 

Aunt  Judith  always  sat  by  on  these  occa- 
sions with  her  sewing  or  knitting,  and  often 
Miss  Scarritt  and  the  little  widow  made  the 
keeping-room  a  cheerful,  cosey  place,  very  bright 
and  pleasant  to  the  lonely  man  who,  in  mark- 
ing out  his  life-work,  had  never  seen  the  time 
when  a  home,  as  most  men  have  one,  could 
be  included. 


280  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"Why  don't  the  man  git  married,  I  wonder!" 
exclaimed  Miss  Scarritt  one  day,  when  Mrs. 
Parson  Whittaker  had  dropped  in  for  a  moment. 
Miriam  had  gone  off  with  Lucy  Badger  on 
some  charitable  work,  and  the  little  widow  was 
enjoying  a  nap  in  the  bedroom.  "  Of  all 
things  on  this  earth,  a  minister  to  be  a  bachel- 
der  I  think  is  the  very  worst  !  So  old  as  he 
is,  too!" 

She  gave  a  little  sniff,  and  twitched  her 
work  contemptuously. 

"  Anybody  would  think,  if  they  didn't  know 
you,  Miss  Samantha,"  said  Mrs.  Whittaker  with 
a  laugh,  "  that  you  had  designs  yourself  on  our 
clerical  friend.  But  then,  they  do  know  you." 

"Yis;  they  do  know  me,"  repeated  Miss 
Scarritt  composedly,  biting  off  her  thread,  "  I 
guess,  'bout  as  well  as  they  ever  will.  An' 
most  everybody  who  knows  me  wouldn't  expect 
me  to  set  up  a-courtin'  at  my  time  o'  life. 
I  don't  see  but  what  I'm  jest  as  happy  a-goin' 
out  to  spend  the  day  where  I  can  hear  what- 
ever's  goin'  on,  an1  come  home  to  do  jest  as 
I've  a  mind  to,  as  ef  I  had  a  husband  an'  a 
houseful  o'  children  to  plague  me  an'  be  a 
perfect  nuisance  to  every  one  else.  La !  it's 


MB.  BEEBE  ALONE  DISSATISFIED.  281 

enough  to  make  me  nervous  to  think  of  it!" 
"  Well,  to  let  you  know  why  Mr.  Beebe 
has  not  provided  himself  with  a  home  before 
this,"  said  Mrs.  Whittaker  soberly,  "  I  will 
tell  you  some  of  the  reasons  that  have  pre- 
vented it,  that  you  may  see  what  a  man  he  is. 
There  are  some  things,  Miss  Samantha,  better 
than  providing  for  one's  self,  that  fit  a  man  to 
be  in  the  most  sacred  of  all  professions  —  the 
ministry.  And  Hiram  Beebe,  although  he  ap- 
pears cool,  self-possessed,  genial,  and  care-free, 
has  borne  a  life  of  self-sacrifice,  the  depth  of 
which  no  one  but  God  knows. 

"  Mr.  Whittaker,  you  know,  has  told  me  all 
this  so  many  times  that  it  is  just  like  an  old 
story,  that,  now  you  know  the  man,  will  be 
quite  as  interesting  to  you.  He  worked  his 
way  along  —  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  back  to  his 
college  days ;  of  course  those  were  just  full  of 
hard,  drudging  work.  But  after  he  entered  the 
ministry  he  took  upon  himself  the  care  of  his 
old  mother  and  two  sisters  ;  for  his  father 
had  left  them  next  to  nothing  —  and  between 
struggling  along,  no  one  knows  how,  and  piec- 
ing out  his  salary  by  teaching,  he  managed  to 
keep  along  until  the  death  of  his  mother,  who, 


282  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

if  she  did  not  have  a  luxurious  life,  did  have 
such  tender  care  and  reverent  love  thrown 
round  her,  that  she  would  not  have  envied  a 
queen.  That  was  the  great  blow  of  his  life. 
But  without  that  —  we  cannot  tell  —  he  may  not 
have  become  the  man  that  he  is.  Well,  his 
sisters  made  his  home  for  him.  One  was  an 
invalid,  and  required  the  nicest  of  care  ;  and  this 
the  brother  gave  for  twelve  years.  Then  she 
was  laid  to  rest.  The  other  sister  was  married, 
and  —  there !  You  have  what  is  left  over  in 
the  neighboring  parish  of  Franklin." 

She  rose  to  go,  but  paused  to  add  a  word : 
"  I  don't  think  he  has  ever  cared  for  any 
woman.  I  know  he  gives  his  confidence  to 
my  husband  in  every  thing,  and  he  has  so 
expressed  himself.  As  he  could  not  offer  a 
woman  a  suitable  home,  he  would  never,  I  am 
very  sure,  allow  himself  to  deviate,  even  in 
thought,  from  his  duty  to  his  mother  and 
sisters.  That  is  why  Mr.  Beebe  never  was 
married." 

"  She  needn't  a  took  such  a  sight  o'  trouble  to 
explain  it,"  exclaimed  the  little  dressmaker  after 
she  had  gone.  "  Goodness  !  I  don't  care  a  mite 
if  he  never  was  married,  an'  if  he  had  forty  sisters 


ME.  BEEBE  ALONE  DISSATISFIED.  283 

instead  o'  two.  Seems  to  me  Mis.  Whittaker 
gits  sort  o'  touchy,  don't  she  ?  Can't  bear  a 
word  about  Mr.  Beebe." 

"  Well,  they  think  a  good  deal  of  him,"  said 
Miss  Judith  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  "  and  it's 
natural  they  should,  I'm  sure,  as  long  as  they've 
known  each  other.  I  like  their  holding  on  to 
their  friends,  Samantha.  There  isn't  too  much 
of  this  quality  in  the  world." 

"  You  never  said  a  truer  word  in  your  life !  " 
said  Miss  Scarritt  heartily.  And  then  Miriam 
came  running  in,  and  the  conversation  was 
dropped. 

But  suddenly,  without  the  least  bit  of  warning, 
Miss  Judith  took  to  staying  up-stairs  of  an  even- 
ing, under  excuse  of  pressing  work  that  was 
ordered,  and  must  be  done  at  just  such  a  time. 
And  when  they  urged  her  to  bring  it  down  and 
be  sociable,  she  always  had  a  dozen  good  and 
reasonable  excuses  at  her  command. 

So  they  were  forced  to  let  her  have  her  own 
way,  and  Mr.  Beebe  had  many  long  talks  with 
Miriam,  uninterrupted  by  the  confusing  chat  of 
a  roomful. 

"  He'.ll  become  better  acquainted  with  her  in 
that  way,"  said  Miss  Judith  to  herself,  with  a 


284  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

wise  nod.  "  And  he'll  be  quite  as  much  surprised 
as  I  am,  after  seeing  her  all  these  years,  to  find 
that  there's  every  thing  to  her  but  a  little  time, 
calculated  to  make  her  a  fine,  noble  woman." 

Stitch,  stitch,  stitch.  On  flew  Miss  Judith's 
needle  in  her  lonely  room.  "  And  what  odds 
does  it  make,  any  way,"  she  cried  to  herself  in 
the  stillness,  "  if  a  score  or  more  of  years  are 
between  them  ?  I  should  rather  it  would  be  so 
than  six  months  the  other  way.  He'll  never 
grow  old ;  but,  with  his  wisdom  and  good  sense, 
he'll  be  just  the  making  of  her,  and  she  —  oh! 
well,  she's  fit  for  any  man's  wife,  most  of  all  for 
a  minister's.  It's  a  special  providence  all  around." 

The  Reverend  Hiram  Beebe  walked  slowly 
back  to  the  parsonage  after  one  of  these  even- 
ings at  the  widow  Scarritt's.  His  face  was  very 
thoughtful,  with  here  and  there  a  troubled  line 
that  grew  harder  and  deeper,  so  that  by  the 
time  he  had  joined  the  family  group  of  two  await- 
ing him,  his  preoccupied  air  could  not  fail  to 
arouse  sympathy  and  ready  questioning. 

"I  fear  it  is  of  no  use,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  do  not  want  to  annoy  her,  and  I  know  I 
do ;  for  only  on  special  occasions,  when  she 


MR.  BEEBE  ALONE  DISSATISFIED.  285 

is  decidedly  requested  to  come  down,  will  she 
•ever  join  us." 

"  I'm  out  of  all  patience  with  Judith  !  "  cried 
Mrs.  Whittaker,  with  feminine  disappointment 
at  the  ill-success  of  her  dearly-cherished  plans. 
"  What  in  the  world  does  get  into  her !  " 

"Do  not  blame  her,"  he  replied  quickly.  "She 
is  too  kind  to  do  any  thing  rude.  It  is  I  who 
am  becoming  troublesome  and  intrusive.  I  am 
afraid  that  my  visits  must  be  given  up.  My 
strong  attachment  never  will  be,  only  I  must 
wait  till  some  favorable  opportunity  presents 
itself  for  further  acquaintance." 

There  was  a  patient  expression  settling  down 
on  the  face  of  this  man  who  had  waited 
through  so  many  of  the  best  years  of  his  life 
for  blessings  that  come  easily  to  others,  that 
so  exasperated  Mrs.  Whittaker  to  see  that  she 
was  about  opening  her  mouth  for  a  vigorous 
outburst,  when  her  husband  motioned  it  back. 

"  Hiram  Beebe,"  he  exclaimed,  energetically, 
"  I  shouldn't  know  you  by  your  words !  For 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  see  you  giving  up 
what  you  have  set  your  heart  on." 

"  It  is  troubling  her,"  he  said  gently,  the 
patient  look  deepening. 


286  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  one 
thing,"  said  Mr.  Whittaker  decidedly,  as  he 
knew  he  must  speak,  and  with  a  touch  of  scorn, 
for  the  better  effect  ;  "  where  is  the  common 
sense  in  giving  up  all  that  you  have  gained 
before  you  have  offered  her  what  you  intend 
to  offer  ?  After  that,  it  is  time  to  talk  of 
staying  away." 

"Then  I  shall  speak  at  once!"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Beebe,  his  intense  eyes  regaining  their 
keen  determination.  "  I  care  not  who  knows 
it,  I  love  Judith  Pettibone.  I  am  proud  of 
it,  and  I  shall  tell  her  of  it  the  very  next 
time  that  we  meet." 

"No,  no,  no!"  cried  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whittaker 
together.  "  You  will  certainly  ruin  all." 

"Judith  never  did  like  to  be  rushed  at 
about  any  thing,"  cried  the  minister's  wife. 
"You  must  expect  she  will  be  cool  and  dig- 
nified until  you  know  her  well.  Then  —  oh, 
she's  perfectly  delightful !  " 

Mr.  Beebe  tapped  his  fingers  in  a  vexed 
way  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  I  will  do  as  you  say,"  he  promised,  after 
a  moment's  thought.  "  You  understand  her  so 
well,  you  know  best.  But  I  warn  you,  if  mat- 


MR.  BEEBE  ALONE  DISSATISFIED.  287 

ters   don't   progress   under   your  guidance  before 
long    I    shall   speak  for  myself." 

He  took  up  the  candle  that  the  minister 
had  set  out  for  him,  lighted  it  without  a  word, 
and  marched  off  to  bed. 


288  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE    MINISTER    FROM    FRANKLIN    SPEAKS. 

MATTERS  progressed  in  this  way  for  sev- 
eral months.  Under  the  guidance  of 
the  good  parson  and  his  estimable  helpmeet, 
the  crisis  when  the  favorable  moment  for  declar- 
ing his  love  should  appear  to  Mr.  Beebe,  was 
just  as  far  off  as  ever,  and  he  could  discover 
no  change  in  Miss  Pettibone's  feelings  toward 
himself,  so  that  the  time  seemed  worse  than 
wasted. 

Only  that  he  had  become  more  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  Miss  Judith,  he  felt  ready  to 
pronounce  the  persistent  calls  at  the  widow 
Scarritt's  as  so  many  forlorn  guide-posts  to 
mark  the  course  of  his  attachment  that  should 
by  this  time  have  reached  its  final  result  — 
the  home  he  longed  for.  And  he  never  hun- 
gered so  much  for  this  home  as  when,  day 
after  day,  and  week  after  week,  he  saw  the  love- 


THE  MINISTER  FROM  FRANKLIN  SPEAKS.    289 

liness,  unselfishness,  and  wonderful  strength  of 
the  character  he  took  every  means  to  study. 

"She  has  nothing  but  indifference  for  me," 
he  said  to  himself  bitterly  on  one  of  his  lonely 
rides  back  over  the  hill.  For  only  on  special 
occasions  would  he  consent  tt>  stay  at  the 
parsonage  and  be  comforted.  "  Yes ;  she  is 
constantly  showing  that  in  every  way.  I  can 
see  it  in  her  expression,  and  in  every  gesture. 
And  yet,  she  is  the  kindest  person  I  ever 
met,  and  all  that  is  womanly  and  true."  He 
covered  his  eyes  a  moment  as  certain  incidents 
in  Miss  Judith's  course  filled  his  mind.  "  I 
have  never  seen  nor  imagined  any  one  so 
beautiful  as  she  is  among  those  children.  I 
do  not  wonder  they  adore  her.  Well,  I'll  speak 
before  long,  Whittaker  and  his  wife  to  the 
contrary.  A  friend's  judgment  is  not  always  to 
be  taken,  even  if  he  is  the  best  friend  on 
earth." 

But  events  frustrated  the  plans  of  the 
minister  from  Franklin.  Brother  John  fell  sick, 
and  Miss  Judith  shut  up  her  little  rooms  at 
the  widow  Scarritt's,  and,  taking  Miriam,  went 
up  to  the  old  homestead  on  the  hill,  to  help 
take  care  of  him.  It  proved  to  be  a  fever, 


290  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

that,  after  it  turned  in  the  sick  man's  favor, 
left  him  very  weak  to  fight  his  way  up  to 
returning  health  slowly,  in  the  face  of  many 
relapses.  To  say  nothing  of  the  fear  of  a 
rejection  of  his  suit  at  such  an  inopportune 
time,  Mr.  *Beet>e  had  no  thought  of  intrud- 
ing himself  on  the  notice  of  the  woman  he 
loved,  but  quietly  put  his  own  feelings  one 
side,  while  he  anticipated  every  service  for 
her  and  hers  that  he  could  possibly  achieve. 

Weeks  grew  into  months  before  John  Petti- 
bone  would  let  his  sister  out  of  his  sight. 
'Gusty  begged,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  at  each 
proposal  by  Miss  Judith  to  return  home,  that 
the  subject  need  not  be  mentioned.  But  at 
last,  when  all  was  going  on  in  its  old  sunny 
fashion  in  the  big  old  house ;  when  brother 
John,  from  a  captious  invalid,  had  become  a 
strong,  hearty  man  again,  Miss  Judith  took 
matters  into  her  own  hands,  and,  coming 
down-stairs  one  bright  morning  in  July  with 
her  bonnet  on,  she  announced  in  a  tone  that 
stopped  all  useless  pleadings,  that  she  was 
bound  for  her  home  in  the  little  brown  cottage. 

"  You  can  come  along  in  the  afternoon, 
Miriam,"  she  said  quietly,  when  she  had  put 


THE  MINISTER  FROM  FRANKLIN  SPEAKS.    291 

down  the  incipient  howls  of  the  children.  "The 
uncanny  look  of  shut-up  rooms  must  be  taken  out 
first,  else  you  never  will  want  to  stay  with  your 
old  aunty  again,"  she  added,  with  a  cheery 
smile. 

"  O  aunty !  I'm  going  to  do  the  work  for 
you,"  cried  the  girl  determinedly,  and  springing 
up.  "  You  stay  here,  and  let  me  run  over ; 
do  !  "  she  begged. 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Miss  Judith  briskly. 
"Whoever  heard  of  such  an  idea  as  a  young 
thing  like  you  fixing  up  an  old  maid's  room  to 
suit  her!  And  besides,  your  roses  are  about  all 
gone  now,  after  your  care  and  worry  over  you/ 
father.  So  what  should  I  do  if  you  were  sick?" 
She  pinched  the  cheek  that  was  a  little  pale 
and  thin,  finishing  up,  "You  come  along  this 
afternoon,  child.  I  shan't  be  ready  for  you 
before  then." 

"  Mother,"  said  Miriam  ardently,  looking  out 
to  watch  Miss  Judith's  tall  figure  disappear  down 
the  road,  "isn't  there  something  we  can  do  to 
show  our  love  for  her?  Something  to  please 
her?" 

"No,"  said  little  Mrs.  John  Pettibone,  with 
more  energy  than  her  daughter  ever  remem- 


292  THE  PETTI  DONE  NAME. 

bered  to  have  seen.  "  Nothin'  that  would  any- 
where begin  to  come  near  what  she's  been  to 
us  all  along.  An'  she's  added  to  it,  by  savin' 
your  father's  life  —  that's  what  Doctor  Pilcher 
says  —  by  her  good  nursin'." 

"Mother,"  said  Miriam,  leaving  her  seat  to  go 
over  to  the  little  woman's  side,  "  we  must 
think  of  something !  We  live  right  along,  year 
after  year,  and  let  aunt  Judith  wear  herself  out 
in  doing  for  us,  and  we  don't  do  a  single 
thing  for  her.  It  isn't  right,  mother ;  it  isn't 
right." 

The  young  girl  looked  so  distressed,  that  little 
Mrs.  John  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

"  I  know  'tisn't,"  she  sobbed,  putting  up  the 
corner  of  her  big  morning  apron  to  quench  the 
torrent ;  "  but  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  I'm  sure. 
Sometimes  I  think  your  aunt  Judith's  goin'  to  be 
taken  away  from  us,  she's  so  good.  An'  death 
always  loves  a  shinin'  mark." 

"O  mother,  don't!"  cried  Miriam,  turning 
as  white  as  a  sheet ;  "  don't !  it  would  kill  us 
all,  and  Tom — "  At  that  she  sprang  up,  and 
paced  the  floor  with  hurried  steps. 

"  I  know,"  said  her  mother,  sighing  deeply. 
"She's  about  made  that  boy.  An'  he's  all 


THE  MINISTER  FROM  FRANKLIN  SPEAKS.      293 

ready  for  college  —  almost  in,  as  you  may  say ; 
he's  so  near  it.  I'm  sure  I  never  knew  how 
to  help  him  along  any ;  an'  my  hands  have 
been  pretty  full,  if  I  had  known." 

Up  and  down  the  big  old  room  went  the  young 
feet.  So  Mrs.  John  began  again  in  the  same 
tone,  interspersed  now  and  then  by  a  sob, — 

"  An'  I  do  think,  Miriam,  the  only  way  to 
pay  the  one  who's  done  so  much  for  us,  is  to 
be  just  as  good  an'  smart  an'  likely  as  all  you 
children  possibly  can  be.  I  believe  that  would 
set  your  aunt  Judith  up  so  that  she  wouldn't 
mind  any  trouble  or  care." 

"  If  we  only  could  be  as  much  as  she  hopes 
for  us,"  said  Miriam  in  a  low  voice  of  intense 
feeling. 

"Well,"  said  her  mother,  glancing  at  the  clock; 
and,  seeing  that  the  time  for  crying  and  such 
luxuries  had  been  indulged  in  to  its  limit,  she 
wiped  off  her  tears  suddenly,  and  smoothed  down 
the  big  apron  ready  for  work.  "  Do  the  best 
you  can,"  she  added ;  "  I'm  sure  none  of  us  can 
do  more.  An'  now,  won't  you  mend  these  clothes 
of  the  children's  in  the  basket  ?  If  you're  goin' 
over  to  your  aunt's  this  afternoon,  you  may  as 
well  turn  these  off  first." 


294  THE  PETTIEONE  NAME. 

The  next  morning,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Beebe 
marched  into  Mr.  Whittaker's  study  and  said : 
"  I  shall  keep  silent  no  longer.  I  have  been 
an  idiot  all  this  while,  not  to  speak  out  like 
a  man.  Now  I  shall  have  the  satisfaction  of 
showing  my  love,  at  any  rate." 

"  O  Hiram,  you  will  spoil  it  all ! "  cried 
Mr.  Whittaker  in  dismay.  "  She  has  only  just 
gone  home.  Why  cant  you  be  patient!  She  is 
coming  around  gradually,  I  do  believe." 

"  Not  another  instant ! "  said  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Beebe.  "  I  speak  now ; "  and  he  was  gone. 

Down  to  the  widow  Scarritt's  he  proceeded. 
And  going  through  the  open  door,  and  finding 
no  one  within,  his  impatience  led  him  on  into 
the  kitchen,  where  Miss  Scarritt  and  Miss 
Pettibone  were  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  cur- 
rant jelly,  and  the  little  old  widow  was  pat- 
tering around,  washing  up  the  glasses  and 
bowls. 

"  Can  I  see  you  ? "  said  Mr.  Beebe,  almost 
sharply,  looking  at  Miss  Judith,  without  a 
word  for  the  others. 

"  Certainly,"  she  said,  bestowing  a  final  stir 
to  the  boiling  mass  in  the  big  kettle,  and  re- 
linquishing the  long  spoon  to  Miss  Scarritt. 


THE  MINISTER  FROM  FRANKLIN  SPEAKS.     295 

And  untying  her  cooking-apron,  she  followed 
him  wonderingly  down  the  hall  to  the  keeping- 
room. 

"  I  can  keep  silence  no  longer,"  he  said. 
His  eyes  were  fastened  on  her  face,  while  he 
made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  impatience.  "My 
love  has  been  repressed  till  it  will  be  heard 
now." 

"  I  have  seen  it  all  along,"  she  said  gently, 
and  trying  to  help  him. 

"  I  know,"  he  cried  bitterly,  "  but  you  have 
kept  me  from  asking  what  my  heart  demanded 
to  know." 

That   was   too   much. 

"I  have  not!"  she  contradicted,  with  a  great 
deal  of  spirit.  "I  have  tried  my  very  best  to 
have  you  see  and  know  her;  how  good  she — " 

"  What   do   you   mean  ? " 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Beebe  at  this  point  seemed 
to  be  all  eyes,  while  the  words  rang  through 
and  through  Miss  Judith's  very  soul. 

"Miriam — "     She   said   only   one   word. 

"  Judith  Pettibone  !  " 

The  minister  from  Franklin  at  this  point 
coolly  took  possession  of  one  of  Miss  Judith's 
hands.  What  he  said  before  he  relinquished 


296  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

it,  is  of  no  consequence  to  us.  Only,  after 
he  did  relinquish  it,  the  big  front  door  shut 
suddenly,  then  the  little  gate  swung  to  with 
a  merry  ring,  and  a  tall,  broad-shouldered 
figure  that  looked  as  if  it  belonged  to  a 
man  who  was  old  enough  to  know  better,  let 
alone  his  being  a  minister,  pranced  along  over 
the  road,  occasionally  indulging  in  a  boyish  skip 
that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  ten-year-old, 
while  Miss  Judith  walked  down  to  the  kitchen, 
tied  on  the  big  apron  again,  and  announced 
herself  ready  for  the  final  stirring  of  the  crim- 
son mass. 

"  Seems  to  me  it's  all  church  business  nowa- 
days, an'  religious  meetin's,"  said  Miss  Scarritt, 
turning  a  very  red  face  from  the  preserve-kettle. 
"  Why  couldn't  the  man  stay  away  one  morn- 
ing, I  wonder ! " 

"  You  shouldn't  say  so,  darter,"  said  old 
Mrs.  Scarritt  reprovingly.  "  The  Lord's  work 
has  to  go  on,  an'  his  people  must  take  it  up," 
she  added,  bestowing  an  extra  polish  on  a  big 
blue  earthen  cup. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  little  dress- 
maker, pushing  the  kettle  a  trifle  from  the 
intense  heat,  as  she  gave  up  the  spoon  to  Miss 


THE  MINISTER  FROM  FRANKLIN  SPEAKS.     297 

Judith ;  "  currant  jell  must  be  done,  too,  I 
s'pose,  'cause  I've  always  found  the  Lord's 
saints  are  just  as  ready  to  eat  it  as  the  sin- 
ners. There,  that's  done,  I  should  think,  Judith  ; 
we  better  lift  it  off." 

The  little  widow  sighed,  and  gazed  anxiously 
at  her  daughter,  whose  state  of  piety,  nowise 
affected  by  the  late  revival,  was  of  precisely 
the  same  blithesome  nature  as  before.  And 
with  the  sigh  went  the  expectation,  till  then 
fondly  clung  to,  that  "  Samanthy  would  stiddy 
down."  Moreover,  the  success  of  the  currant 
jelly  absorbing  all  Mrs.  Scarritt's  attention,  she 
dismissed  other  thoughts,  to  lend  her  eyes  and 
ears  to  the  movements  of  the  two  over  by  the 
big  table,  engaged  in  pouring  out  the  result  of 
the  morning's  work  into  its  various  receptacles. 

But  the  next  Sunday,  when  everybody  within 
a  radius  of  ten  miles  knew  that  "Judith  Pet- 
tibone,  daughter  to  Ira,  you  know,  who  died  so 
sudden,  is  going  to  marry  the  minister  from  Frank- 
lin, the  Reverend  Mr.  Beebe ! "  all  the  tongues 
in  the  two  parishes  could  not  express  the  aston- 
ishment that  fell  upon  them  at  receipt  of  the 
news. 

"I   thought   she'd   get   tired   of    livin'    at    the 


298  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

Scarritts'  an'  supportin'  of  herself ! "  exclaimed 
the  shoemaker's  wife,  down  by  the  stove,  when 
the  announcement  reached  her.  Then  the  venom 
of  her  nature  that  the  late  lesson  received 
could  not  wholly  subdue,  asserted  itself,  and 
she  added  excitedly  :  "  That  wasn't  intended  to 
be  for  long;  only  until  she  could  catch  some 
one,  I  knew  !  " 

"  You  always  do  know  more'n  other  folks, 
Mis.  Bassett,"  said  little  Mrs.  Parsons,  whose 
rapid  growth  in  spiritual  things  couldn't  keep 
her  from  a  sharp  reply.  "I'd  advise  you  to 
be  a  little  more  strict  on  yourself  than  your 
neighbors." 

The  shoemaker's  wife  muttered  something 
about  "Free  speech  bein'  every  one's  right," 
to  her  next  neighbor,  who  didn't  hear  a  word, 
being  occupied  in  trying  to  catch  all  the  gos- 
sip flying  wildly  around. 

But  if  any  one  was  astonished  almost  be- 
yond the  power  of  recovering  in  time  to  con- 
gratulate, that  one  was  Miss  Samantha  Scarritt. 

When  Miss  Judith  communicated  to  her  the 
news,  as  she  did  as  soon  as  brother  John's 
family  and  the  Whittakers  had  been  .  told, 
that  worthy  woman  perfectly  scandalized  her 


THE  MINISTER  FROM  FRANKLIN  SPEAKS.      299 

friend  of  many  years'  close  friendship,  by  cry- 
ing, "  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it  !  You're 
not  such  a  goose,  Judith  Pettibone ! "  and  rush- 
ing out  of  the  room. 

And  for  two  days  she  never  said  a  pleasant 
or  kind  word,  pursing  up  her  thin  lips  when- 
ever they  had  to  meet  in  hall  or  on  stairs,  and 
dropping  whatever  was  in  hand  to  dart  out  of 
the  keeping-room  at  the  first  sight  of  the  tall, 
ministerial  figure  entering  the  gate. 

And  now  Miriam  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Don't  feel  so,  dear  Miss  Samantha,"  she 
begged,  forcing  her  way  into  a  big  lumber 
closet  where  Miss  Scarritt  had  gone  to  look 
over  an  old  chest,  and  was  noisily  pushing 
around  things  to  get  to  it ;  "  aunt  Judith  is  so 
happy." 

"Happy!"  cried  the  little  spinster  with  with- 
ering scorn,  and  stopping  the  deafening  noise, 
to  let  her  voice  be  heard.  "Miriam  Pettibone, 
I  hate  to  say  it  to  you  after  the  respect  you've 
always  had  for  your  aunt,  but  —  she's  —  she's 
a  goose ! " 

After  this  terrible  denunciation,  she  fell  to 
again  with  renewed  zeal  on  the  pushing  around 
of  every  thing  she  could  lay  her  hands  on, 


300  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

drowning  each  attempt  on  Miriam's  part  to 
make  herself  heard. 

But  one  night  about  a  week  after,  just  as 
Miss  Pettibone  had  blown  out  her  light,  and 
was  composing  herself  to  a  quiet  sleep,  there 
came  a  scratching  and  rustling  at  the  door,  as 
if  a  burglar  were  contemplating  an  entrance. 

"  Auntie,"  whispered  Miriam  from  her  little 
room,  "  do  you  hear  that  noise  ?  " 

"  It's  the  mice,  probably,"  said  Miss  Judith, 
turning  over  on  her  back  to  listen.  "  Lie  still, 
child,  and  go  to  sleep." 

But  presently  the  knob  was  turned  softly. 
Miss  Judith,  realizing  this  beyond  the  capabil- 
ities of  the  ordinary  little  house-nuisance,  sprang 
out  of  bed,  and  threw  the  door  open  with  a 
determined  hand. 

"  It's  only  me,"  said  a  little  humble  voice 
out  in  the  darkness. 

"  Samantha,  what  in  this  world !  "  exclaimed 
Miss  Judith,  staring  down  into  the  countenance 
above  the  white  outline. 

"  I  couldn't  sleep,"  said  the  little  dressmaker, 
in  a  miserable  voice.  "  I  really  couldn't,  Ju- 
dith. I  got  to  thinkin'  so  — how  s'posin'  you 
should  die  before  mornin',  or  I  should,  an' 


THE  MINISTER  FROM  FRANKLIN  SPEAKS.     301 

that  miserable  man  —  do  excuse  me  !  —  had 
come  between  us  so  that  we  didn't  scarcely 
speak  !  An'  it  scared  me  so  that  I  hed  to  get 
right  up  to  come  an'  say,  Let's  be  friends 
just  the  same's  ever,  Judith;  doh" 

Her  little  pinched  face  looked  so  comical 
in  the  weird  light,  that  Miss  Judith  had  all 
she  could  do  to  refrain  from  bursting  into  a  fit 
of  laughter.  But  controlling  herself,  she  said 
cordially :  "  That's  the  very  best  thing  you 
could  have  done,  Samantha,  for  both  of  us;" 
and  bending  down,  she  gave  her  a  kiss,  saying, 
"  I'll  return  you  the  kiss  you  made  my  heart 
glad  with  so  long  ago." 

"An'  I'll  help  get  you  ready,"  said  Miss 
Scarritt  heroically,  determined  to  do  nothing  by 
halves ;  and  edging  to  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
"though  I  must  say,  same's  before,  Judith, 
I  do  —  I  really  do  —  think  you're  a  goose!" 


THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


WE  WILL    HELP    YOU    DO    IT,  EVERY  ONE    OF    US'!* 


JUDITH  PETTIBONE'S   wedding  day! 
For  once,  the   good  people  of   Barkhamsted 
were  satisfied.     That  a  wedding,  large  and  impos- 
ing, in  which    everybody  had  a   part,  should  fall 
within  their  borders,  filled  each  heart  with  delight. 

Especially  as  the  time  appointed  was  just 
between  the  canning  season  and  the  winter 
work,  the  good  housewives  felt  at  liberty  to 
take  as  much  time  as  they  chose  in  prepara- 
tion for  it,  without  laying  themselves  open  to 
criticism  from  any  one. 

For  the  great  affair  was  to  take  place  in 
the  old  church,  as  it  was  exceedingly  proper 
it  should.  All  the  village  people  begged  that 
it  might  be  so,  while  Mr.  Beebe's  parishioners 
were  equally  clamorous  for  a  chance  to  unite 
in  the  happy  occasion ;  so  what  could  the  two 
most  interested  do,  but  say  yes  ? 


"  WE  WIIL  HELP  YOU  DO  IT."  303 

Particularly  as  Miss  Pettibone,  now  so  soon 
to  put  off  her  own  name,  and  leave  her  old 
home  among  these  dearly-loved  people,  wanted 
to  show  her  love  for  them  in  a  way  she 
knew  they  would  best  appreciate.  And  so, 
though  much  preferring  the  simplest  marriage 
possible,  she  put  aside  her  own  wishes,  and 
requested  that  all,  especially  the  children  of 
the  village,  should  witness  the  ceremonies. 

And  feeling  from  her  friendly  messages 
that  each  family  was  especially  invited,  they 
one  and  all  entered  with  the  greatest  zest  into 
preparations  to  do  honor  to  the  occasion,  and 
to  show  their  love  for  her. 

Even  Mrs.  Bassett,  on  receiving  her  invita- 
tion, so  far  forgot  to  exhibit  any  of  her  usual 
venom,  that  she  immediately  set  to  work  on  a 
cake  of  the  hugest  dimensions,  to  be  sent  with 
her  respects,  for  which  she  starved  her  family 
for  a  week  to  make  up  the  expense.  And 
for  years  after,  she  never  tired  of  taking  up 
from  the  mahogany  table  in  her  "best  room," 
a  yellow  little  note,  to  show  to  visitors,  telling 
them,  "That's  from  my  most  intimate  friend, 
Judith  Pettibone  that  was,  askin'  me  to  her 
weddin'.  She  married  the  Reverend  Mr.  Beebe. 


304  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

Used  to  live  over  in  Franklin,  you  know, 
but  la!  he  was  too  smart  for  them,  an'  they 
moved,  after  a  year  or  two,  down  to  Penn- 
sylvany." 

"Judith  is  happy,"  said  John  Pettibone  to 
his  wife  over  and  over,  on  the  morning  of 
the  wedding-day  ;  "  Gusty,  don't  take  on  so  !  " 

"  You  feel  just  as  bad  as  I  do,"  sobbed  the 
little  woman,  who  was  vainly  trying  to  put 
the  "  best  room "  in  order.  "  O  John,  John, 
what  shall  we  ever  do  without  her ! "  She 
stopped  suddenly  the  dusting  of  the  claw- 
footed  furniture,  and  threw  herself  into  her 
husband's  arms,  to  be  gathered  up  for  that 
comfort  which  he  himself  so  sorely  needed. 

"She's  given  her  life  for  us,  the  best  part 
of  it,"  he  cried  earnestly;  "first,  to  pa  and  ma, 
and  me.  You  don't  know  what  a  sister  she  was 
to  me,  Gusty."  The  man's  face  was  wet  with 
tears  other  than  those  that  flowed  from  the  little 
wet  cheek  pressed  against  his  own. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  sobbed  'Gusty,  "  seein'  her  all 
these  years !  Folks  ain't  good  without  startin' 
right.  She's  gold  all  the  way  through." 

Then  he  broke  out  with  passionate  emphasis: 
"What  she's  done  for  our  family,  wife,  that 


"  WE  WILL  HELP  YOU  DO  IT."  305 

we  do  know,  and  our  children  will  rise  up 
and  call  her  blessed.  See  what  they'll  make, 
and  all  because  of  her ! " 

"Tom's  come!",  cried  Miriam,  bounding  in, 
the  love -glow  over  her  fair  face.  "Deacon 
Badger  was  at  the  station  when  the  train  came 
in,  and  he  says  Tom  ran  'cross  lots'  over  to 
aunt  Judith's  the  first  thing.  Deacon  Badger's 
brought  his  trunk  up.  And,  oh,  mother, 
father ! "  exclaimed  the  girl  with  a  proud  ring 
in  her  young  voice,  "he's  grown  so  tall  and 
grand  and  good  —  Deacon  Badger  says  so!" 

"  He  can't  help  but  be,"  said  her  father, 
involuntarily  straightening  up ;  "  isn't  he  a 
Pettibone,  pray  tell !  Now,  Gusty,  no  more 
tears.  Let  Judith  have  all  the  sunshine  that 
the  old  house  can  give  her  to-day." 

Meanwhile  Bobby  Jane  and  Mehitable,  too 
much  excited  over  their  new  white  dresses  and 
red  sashes,  to  hold  their  feelings  within 
bounds,  kept  the  old  house  in  a  perfect  tur- 
moil, driving  every  one  nearly  frantic  with  their 
wild  joy. 

"  Do  take  your  fingers  off  an'  go  out ! " 
cried  Miss  Scarritt  at  them,  as  they  hovered 


306  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

over  the  long  table,  trying  to  see  what  was 
under  the  white  flowers  on  the  bride-loaf.  "  I 
can't  stand  your  pickin'  at  things  so." 

"  We  ain't  pickin',"  said  Bobby  Jane  indig- 
nantly, "  an'  it's  our  aunt  Judy  that's  goin' 
to  get  married,  an'  it's  my  all-alone  Mr.  Beebe ; 
so!" 

"  I  don't  care  who  'tis  that's  goin'  to  get 
married,"  retorted  the  little  dressmaker,  too 
tired  to  keep  still ;  "  tain't  you,  any  way. 
When  that  time  comes  you  can  speak  about 
things  ;  not  before." 

"Miss  Samantha,"  said  Bobby  Jane,  with- 
drawing her  ringers  from  the  fascinating  cake, 
and  standing  quite  still  to  regard  her  a  mo- 
ment fixedly,  "you  won't  ever  be  married  — 
never,  in  all  this  world.  My  pa  said  so  the 
other  day,  an'  everybody  says  so." 

"  Your  pa  don't  know  every  thin'/'  exclaimed 
the  little  dressmaker  quickly.  And  then  she 
laughed.  "  Well,"  she  cried,  recovering  herself 
to  fly  at  her  work  again,  "you  better  go  out 
of  this  room,  both  of  you ;  for  if  there's  any 
thin'  I  won't  stand,  it's  an  impertinent  child." 

"You  ought  to  go,  Bobby  Jane,"  advised 
Ira,  coming  along  the  hall  just  then,  resplen- 


"  WE  WILL  HELP  YOU  DO  IT."  307 

dent  in  his  new  suit,  and  seeing  how  matters 
stood;  "and  don't  make  trouble  to-day,  because 
everybody's  so  tired." 

"Oh  dear!"  cried  Mehitable,  creeping  out 
in  a  melancholy  way,  while  Bobby  Jane  fol- 
lowed, exclaiming,  "You  think  you're  so  smart, 
Ira,  'cause  you're  goin'  off  to  school  like  Tom ! 
But  I'm  goin'  to  stay  with  my  aunt  Judy  an' 
my  Mr.  Beebe  one,  two,  three  hundred  years 
I  guess." 

Into  the  old  homestead,  finding  this  a  highly 
convenient  time  for  renewing  the  intimacy  war- 
ranted by  being  "blood  relations,"  came  all  the 
cousins  to  the  last  degree.  It  was  surprising 
what  an  elastic  bond  united  them ;  no  less  sur- 
prising how  many  felt  obliged  to  respond  to 
the  call  of  duty  that  bade  them  see  "dear 
Judith "  married,  and  be  present  at  the  wed- 
ding feast. 

But  the  "second  and  third  cousins"  dwin- 
dled in  importance  by  the  side  of  the  throng 
that  filled  the  old  village  church  to  witness  the 
giving  away  in  marriage  of  her  who  was  born 
and  bred  in  their  midst,  to  be,  they  all  found 
out  now  that  she  was  going,  a  benefactress 
unto  every  one.  There  were  nothing  but  sin- 


308  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

cere  wishes  in  every  heart.  There  was  not 
a  shadow  of  envy,  even  in  the  most  selfish 
mind.  All  was  gladness  and  congratulation  as 
Judith  Pettibone  came  out  upon  the  old  porch 
as  Judith  Beebe. 

But  the  "  cousins "  assumed  their  rightful 
places  as  important  personages  at  the  old  home- 
stead, where  they  stalked  and  rustled  among 
the  few  invited  guests,  expatiating  on  "dear 
cousin  Judith"  to  every  one  who  would  listen. 

"I'm  so  mad  at  'em,"  confided  Miss  Scarritt 
to  Reverend  Mr.  Whittaker,  over  her  plate  of  cake 
which  she  was  crumbling  up  aimlessly,  too  tired 
and  nervous  to  carry  a  bit  to  her  mouth. 
"Judith  don't  scarcely  know  one  of  'em.  Don't 
see  'em  from  one  year's  end  to  another,  an' 
now  just  hear  'em  go  on ! " 

"  It's  the  way  of  the  world,"  said  Mr.  Whit- 
taker  with  a  cheery  laugh.  All  his  laughs 
nowadays  were  good  to  hear.  "  Miss  Samantha, 
there  can  nothing  spoil  this  feast." 

Just  then  a  voice  took  a  key  above  the  rest 
of  the  chatter. 

"Yes!  well,  you  see  now  that  'twas  all  for 
the  best  that  you  didn't  git  the  half  o'  yer 
pa's  money,  Judith." 


"WE  WILL  HELP  YOU  DO  IT."  309 

It  was  old  cousin  Huldah  Pettibone,  a  third 
cousin  of  John  and  Judith's  father,  a  tiresome 
old  lady,  who,  having  eaten  and  drunken  her 
utmost,  was  now  ready  with  her  remarks. 

Mrs.  Beebe  tried  to  move  away  from  her 
dangerous  relative  who  had  been  attacked  with 
a  talking  spasm.  And  cousin  Huldah's  son 
started  forward  to  twitch  her  sleeve,  but  not 
in  time  to  save  the  next  words  : 

"  An'  I  think  'twas  a  good  thing  he  left  it 
all  to  John  —  'cause  —  " 

"He  didn't!" 

A  consternation  too  deep  for  words  now  fell 
upon  the  entire  marriage  party.  Even  the 
children  stopped  eating,  to  crowd,  open-eyed 
and  open-mouthed,  into  the  centre  of  the 
group  from  whence  the  words  came,  when 
they  found,  to  their  intense  astonishment,  that 
the  orator  was  none  other  than  Miss  Samantha 
Scarritt ! 

"  He  didn't, "  repeated  the  little  dressmaker 
decidedly,  all  the  while  observing  the  utmost 
care  not  to  look  in  the  direction  of  the 
bride,  "  do  any  such  thing !  I  promised  not 
to  tell;  but  I  ain't  a  goin'  to  let  Judith  Pet- 
tibone go  away  as  Judith  Beebe,  without  lettin' 


'.no  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

you   all,    an'    everybody,    know   what    she's    been 
doin'    all   this   while  ! " 

No   use   to   try   to   stop   her   now! 

Mrs.  Beebe  turned  very  pale,  and  glanced 
over  at  brother  John  in  great  anxiety,  while 
her  husband  never  took  his  eyes  from  the  face 
of  the  one  whose  character  was  to  be  revealed 
to  him  in  yet  a  new  light. 

"  Tell  every  thing  you  know,"  said  John  Pet- 
tibone  in  a  loud  voice,  bringing  himself  into 
full  view  of  the  little  dressmaker;  "where  you 
heard  it,  and  how  you  heard  it.  Let  full 
justice  be  done  to  Judith ;  for  we  will  know 
the  truth." 

The  relatives  nudged  each  other.  This  was 
more  exciting  than  a  funeral,  and  the  first 
reading  of  a  will. 

"You  needn't  be  the  least  might  afeared 
but  what  I  shall  tell  it  all,  now  I've  got 
started,"  said  the  little  dressmaker  in  her 
most  earnest  tones,  and  giving  a  succession  of 
nods  to  all  the  circle  of  relatives.  "  Folks  don't 
ginerally  break  a  promise  for  nothin',  and  I  ain't 
a  goin'  to  without  doin'  the  job  up.  I  guess 
I'll  be  forgiven.  A  bad  promise  is  better  broken 
than  kept." 


"  WE  WILL  IIELP  YOU  DO  IT."  311 

"  Stand  on  the  table  !  Stand  oh  the  table  !  " 
screamed  one  of  the  children,  probably  Bobby 
Jane.  "We  can't  see  you." 

This  invitation  not  being  accepted,  and  the 
little  dressmaker  proceeding  calmly  in  her  nar- 
ration, the  bridegroom  lifted  Bobby  Jane  to  a 
good  position  on  his  shoulder,  and  stifling  her 
crows  of  triumph,  gave  himself  up  to  the  posses- 
sion of  every  word. 

Seeing  which,  the  fathers  and  big  brothers  all 
over  the  room,  yielded  to  the  importunity  of  the 
little  people,  and  soon  there  were  elevated  on 
broad  shoulders,  all  the  small  folks,  whose  eyes 
and  mouths  were  as  wide  open  as  were  those 
of  their  elders. 

"  No  use  to  palaver  over  it,"  the  little  dress- 
maker was  saying,  "  an'  I'll  come  to  the  point 
by  a  short  cut.  There  was  another  will,  a  late 
one.  I  heard  old  Mr.  Pettibone  tell  Judith  my- 
self, an'  she  made  me  promise  not  to  tell.  Do 
you  know  why  ?  " 

A  solemn  stillness  settled  all  over  the  room. 
No  one  dared  to  stir. 

"Do  you  know  why?"  repeated  the  little  dress- 
maker in  her  shrillest  key,  and  standing  on  her 
tiptoes,  to  bring  herself  a  little  nearer  to  other 


312  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

people's  level.  "  Because  she  didn't  care  for 
herself  a  pin's  worth  compared  to  her  brother 
John  an'  her  brother  John's  children.  They  are 
all  the  world  to  her." 

"  Were,  you  mean,"  said  Mr.  Whittaker's  deep 
voice,  looking  over  at  the  newly-wedded  pair. 

Mrs.  Judith  smiled  up  into  her  husband's  face, 
at  which,  Bobby  Jane,  thinking  the  smile  was 
meant  for  her,  tried  to  clamber  down  a  little  to 
kiss  her. 

"  Oh  well,  he  warn't  here  when  this  was 
all  a  goin'  on,  replied  little  Miss  Scarritt, 
who,  as  has  been  mentioned  in  this  narra- 
tive, never  was,  and  never  would  be,  a  re- 
specter of  persons.  "  You  must  let  me  tell  the 
story  in  my  own  way,  or  I  never  shall  get 
on  in  all  the  world." 

"  Go  on  !  go  on  !  "  went  around  the  room, 
the  "  second  and  third  cousins "  trying  to  get 
into  the  front  row. 

"Well,  an'  she  —  Judith,  I  mean  —  took  care 
that  the  will  couldn't  be  found,  so  there  is 
none  now,  an'  —  " 

"Where  is  it,  where  is  it?"  demanded  John 
Pettibone  sharply.  "You  shall  have  every  penny, 
Judith  ! "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  that  rang  through 


"  WE  WILL  HELP  YOU  DO  IT."  313 

the  old  room,  as  he  turned  to  his  sister.  "Every 
single  penny  that  has  been  yours  so  long." 

"  You  can't  prove  it,"  said  Mrs.  Judith 
triumphantly,  with  her  brightest  smile ;  "  O 
John,  you  can't  prove  it ! " 

"An'  if  you  could,"  cried  little  Miss  Scar- 
ritt  in  great  excitement,  "  which  you  can't,  you 
know,  as  there  ain't  any  will  to  show,  but 
if  you  could,  why,  you'd  hurt  her  more'n  the 
loss  of  a  million  dollars  would.  She's  set  out 
for  the  education  of  all  your  children,  an'  the 
upliftin'  of  the  Pettibone  name,  an'  she'll  do 
it." 

Deacon  Badger  and  Doctor  Pilcher,  who  had 
been  near  neighbors  during  all  this,  moved 
aside  at  this  juncture  to  let  a  tall,  boyish  form 
push  its  way  into  the  centre  of  the  group. 

"Aunt  Judith,"  he  said  with  reverent  voice, 
while  his  eyes,  those  clear  young  eyes,  searched 
her  face  with  a  world  of  tenderness,  "by  the 
grace  of  God  we  will  help  you  do  it,  every  one 
of  us." 

Mrs.  Beebe  glanced  from  the  strong,  earnest 
face  up  to  her  mother's  portrait,  which  had 
been  brought  over  to  the  old  homestead  to 
bless,  with  its  presence,  this  day  of  all  days 


314  THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

for  her  daughter,  and,  allowing  her  gaze  to 
rest  on  the  sweet,  radiant  face,  full  of  bene- 
diction, full  of  Christian  faith  and  purpose, 
thanked  God  for  it  all. 

"Those  who  have  gone  before,  Tom,"  she 
said  softly,  "beckon  us  on.  I  think  each  one 
of  you  children  will  follow." 

And  here  Bobby  Jane  felt  called  upon  to 
answer. 

"Oh,  I'll  do  it!"  she  cried  from  her  perch, 
delighted  at  the  chance  of  making  herself  heard. 
"I'm  goin'  to  be  always  good.  Then  I  guess 
aunt  Judy'll  be  glad  !  " 

But  Miss  Samantha  had  the  last  word,  after 
all. 

"Judith,"  she  said,  drawing  her  friend  down 
a  little  back  entry  when  the  moment  for 
good-bys  had  come,  and  the  Franklin  minister's 
chaise  stood  in  waiting  at  the  gate,  "for  mercy's 
sake,  come  here ! "  and  she  thrust  her  behind 
a  convenient  door.  "There  now,  p'raps  I  can 
tell  you.  You  know — well,  you  know  —  " 

Here  the  little  dressmaker  turned  helplessly 
from  side  to  side,  but  she  received  no  assistance. 

"  Well,"  and  she  put  her  two  little  wiry  hands 


"  WE  WILL  HELP  YOU  DO  IT."  315 

into  the  firm  ones  that  had  never  failed  her, 
"if  you  hold  on  to  me,  I  guess  I  can  tell  you 
that  —  that  —  well,  it's  all  Doctor  Pilcher's  fault, 
an'  I'm  only  doin'  it  to  rescue  him  from  that 
housekeeper;  but,  Judith,  I  shall  have  to  tell  you 
that  I'm  afraid — I'm  afraid  —  I'm  a  goose  too." 


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